The Post-Apocalyptic Penitent
by chrissyppk
Summary: A sorcerer and a psyker scheme to save the world by creating a goddess. Will their scheme succeed? Who knows. It doesn't seem likely when the child of prophesy is born in the Capitol Wasteland. Few can comprehend the convoluted machinations of the dynamic duo. Here be a tale of terrible dimensions. Click not, lest thine fragile mind be dragged o'er the coals of perversion.
1. Chapter 1: Nelos

**Chapter 1: Nelos**

I am an infinitesimally small mote drifting in the froth of the multiverse. My corporeal existence precludes my knowledge of my place and purpose here. For instance, I couldn't say with absolute certainty that I am immortal. I have met others like me who did claim to be so—others younger, stupider, and, in some cases, deceived (as I showed). I don't believe corporeal beings can be omniscient—we don't have the capacity for it, even if we are immortal. That said, I cannot remember being young even in my farthest memories, and those—by my calculations to Earth's solar cycle—are seven thousand years old.

It's possible I am immortal. Sometimes, when my power waxes and I feel this verse quake and hearken to my will, I am certain of it and I wonder: What the hell am I doing here? Did I come to this particular place for a reason? These philosophical musings often evoke in me a thirst for meaning and I'll spend decades searching for portents, diviners, ruins—everything that might reveal any clue I may have left eons in the past to my purpose here. I futilely lament my inability to sire children for I'd have sired a nation just to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to my origin. Everything crumbles.

My last bout of self-searching ended in frustration and I conceived a new creed: "Fuck it, let's play." So I built my home here on Earth and created portals by which my friends and fanatics could come and go. Together we created dragons and magical flora and fauna; we grafted bewildering landscapes and planted beautiful gardens. We built soaring fortresses on roaming paradisiacal islands. We toyed with sapient natives, claimed our favorites, and gifted them with magic. When we tired of that, we drew civilizations up and pitted them against one another in games befitting my scheme to take the human species to the rest of the galaxy.

It was invigorating at first, but I gradually suspected that my wins were not all due to skill alone, that I had done this before. I felt a niggling dèjá vu to the nurturing of a superior star-faring civilization and an uninspired dread of its culmination. Each technological breakthrough in the space program began to weigh on me inexplicably. Then my portals began to fail with catastrophic consequences. In the end, it was the abrupt global annihilation of all our civilizations that gave me pause. Twenty billion dead in the spanse of a year and what did I feel? Shock? Rage? Grief? Frustration? No: _relief_. I paused, on my wasted planet, with a sigh of relief.

In that pause a filthy five year old human reached for my hand and pleaded, "Help me and I will tell you who you are." His name was James. He was a tragic orphan of my doing persecuted for his parentage.

I replied, "I'm seven thousand years old, I've watched your ancestors evolve from dung-flinging beasts to masters of war. I am an Elder sorcerer of power that would quench a hundred suns. I have pursued my enemies and their kin across the breadth of galaxies and back to annihilate them. I tame demons, humiliate gods, and consume the souls of the living. I slew your parents. I know who I am boy."

And out of the mouth of this babe came, "You're 3,842,000 years old, but you won't remember that in another seven millennia without my aid."

It was his diction that seduced me as much as his promise. Not that I would or could have harmed him. I assumed he was possessed and took him to the Franciscan priory outside the ruins of Winston-Salem as he wished. I waited a fortnight for the demon to destroy him and procure a more suitable host with which to parley, but when I returned I found the boy, unpossessed of anything but some rude skills in compulsion, telepathy, and precognition.

After that meeting I reconsidered a theory I'd dismissed before. There are no clues to my past. I left no record because I didn't want to be found. I am here because I am hiding.

From whom?


	2. Chapter 2: James

**Chapter 2: James**

"Bless me father for I have sinned. Spectacularly."

Father Eucharist snorted awake from his sleep and grumpily replied, "You cannot be blessed for sinning, my boy, unless you repent."

"Then you rob me of the joy of sinning," said the penitent in his lilting English accent.

"Who are you? You're no Christian," accused Father Eucharist, squinting through the confessional screen.

"Forgive me Father, this seemed the best place for my inquiry into a possessed boy I brought here a fortnight ago. Surely you remember me? Or has the demon been exorcised?" asked the penitent.

"No. What? Fortnight? Possessed?" Father Eucharist stammered, caught off guard. "You know this boy then? Good. He said someone would come for him. You say you brought him here? Can't say I recognize your face. Come out of the booth." He pulled himself from his seat and opened the confessional door to find a very tall, odd-looking young man waiting for him.

"We meet again. Let's have that talk you promised," said the penitent, bowing at the waist after gauging the Father. The penitent stood below Father Eucharist on the confessional platform and yet he was a head taller. Eucharist's first impulse was to laugh at the impossibly clean and pressed white shirt and black tailed waistcoat the post-apocalyptic penitent wore, but this was stifled upon further inspection of the youth. His irises were bright orange and too large. Pointy elf ears protruded from long white hair that nearly obscured cryptic runes etched into the pale skin of his temples. His smile was polite and courteous and much the way the Father imagined Satan smiled at Judas when he welcomed him into Hell. Perhaps the least conspicuous aspect of his appearance but the most significant—as Father Eucharist belatedly noted—was that he was holding a sword.

"Never seen you before!" spat the Father. Eucharist, in turn, was himself tall and thin—an unshaven, disheveled, but sharp-eyed, Franciscan ascetic. His brown robes didn't conceal the copious bloodstains adorning them. He neatly sidestepped the penitent and strode quickly across the cathedral through an arched door and turned into a hallway. "Armand! Julian! Sean!" he called in alarm. The penitent frowned but followed him into the hallway patiently.

Two robed men came through an open doorway and moved to shield Father Eucharist. Their brows furrowed as they took their impression of the looming penitent. He stopped and examined the three friars equally. Their sleeves were rolled and their arms were streaked with blood. The penitent glanced towards the door and asked, "Whose blood covers your hands? Who hosts the demon now?"

"Demon? There's no demon here, unless that was to be your confession," growled Father Eucharist. "Where did you come from? What kind of mutant are you, boy? How'd you get in—the door's bolted and the windows are boarded!"

The penitent answered with resolute composure, "I teleported in from London, of course. Where else?" He raised his hand and all three friars froze in suspended animation. Then he passed through the door and entered a long medieval kitchen. Crates of beets, apples, potatoes and other produce lay stacked and scattered throughout the room around two benches spanning the length of the room. To his right, before an enormous, blazing fireplace, lay a comatose and mutilated female being tended by a friar. A small, raven-headed child of extraordinary beauty was avidly watching the friar's nervous ministrations with a sewing needle to the shredded breast of the woman.

The penitent felt the sting of regret. He knew this child and, in the manner of affairs abandoned in crisis, felt accountable to him. It was he who cut the boy from his screaming mother's womb. He had snatched her from the Commorrite portal vortex and transported her to the safety of Avalon, thinking himself her savior until he observed the demonic expression marring her once proud and beautiful face. She had proved unsalvageable, but he had foolishly borne the hope that her infant was spared, if doomed to be a pariah. Alas.

The penitent placed the tip of his sword against the boy's throat. "You're a bit old for the tit, aren't you, demon?" he said and released a spell that would draw out and bind the demon, undoubtedly killing the boy in the process. The spell fizzled and had no effect.

The boy cautiously looked up at the penitent with striking blue eyes and said, "I'm not possessed. Sister Clara was attacked by a man from the camp she was going to," calmly. "He raped her and tried to eat her boob." Then he took up some cloth and draped it over the penitent's sword. The boy's eyes suddenly dilated and his gaze burrowed into the penitent's, despoiling his thoughts, stupefying his mind, and wrenching away his identity and will. In that moment he compelled the penitent: _Tear this cloth into strips. Long strips, three inches wide_.

The penitent gasped in disbelief, but was unable to relish the stun. Immediately, he began cutting and tearing the cloth into strips, unable to struggle inwardly—trapped by the overwhelming compulsion to cut the cloth. "I don't usually enjoy killing children," he said conversationally, "but seduction and compulsion offend me greatly—even if you are only trying to impress me. You are a true prodigy of the Immaterium—a baby esper. Of course, I'm impressed, little master. Of course, I'll tear your strips." His tone was warm, his smile was affable, and his sparkling eyes concealed murder. He turned his back on the child and walked to the kitchen door while ripping the fabric. Then he faced him again and promised, "and of course I'll tear your eyes from your sockets if you try that on me again."

The boy smiled and blushed with pleasure. The sword and the failed spell had shaken him, but he thoroughly revered him and was immensely gratified by the praise. He couldn't resist showing off—his voice sounded inside the penitent's head: _Then I will ask nicely: Will you please release Father Eucharist and Armand and Sean. I need their help to hide Sister Clara and clean up. There are people climbing into the attic upstairs—raiders from the prison camp_.

If the penitent was further impressed, he did not show it. "Good. You see you can use logic and politeness to persuade me. If you promise to keep out of my head and continue civil parley, James, of course I'll release your friends," said the penitent, cocking his head in wait. After the boy named James nodded consensually and lied, "I promise to do so," the penitent sheathed his sword and nodded towards the suspended friars. They reanimated, dazed and confused.

Father Eucharist suddenly jumped into action and took the strips from the penitent's hands, saying with uncharacteristic gratefulness, "Thank you, Nelos." It was James's gratitude. Eucharist carried the bandages to the patient and began binding her wound. Across from him the boy frowned thoughtfully. He never said a word or looked at the others, but the friars began working harmoniously together as though they shared a single mind, caring for the wrecked nun.

After a moment of observation, Nelos laughed delightedly and exclaimed, "Ah a prodigy psycher! Five years old and you're simultaneously compelling multiple strong minds in coordinated medical procedures—telepathically to boot. I wonder what the Enclave was planning to do with you in the Vault if you're not possessed—as you allowed me to assume. Were they training you to be a Void? What a shame. If you could have held off a few years before recklessly endangering yourself, and if I thought I could trust you, I might have recruited you myself."

"You're mad I used you to escape," said James, looking up under long, thick lashes. "The Enclave wasn't keeping me there and they never trained me. I needed to do something in the Vault and I saw you'd be there to help me escape, but don't worry—I _will_ help you. I know you didn't mean to kill my parents. They got caught in the Warp Storm. There was nothing you could do. I'm glad you confessed though. You will be glad you saved me."

What did he mean saying he _saw_ that he'd be there in the Vault? That as well as being a psycher he was also a seer? That he was this powerful—a _human_ _child_ of scarcely five years age? What incredible potential did this boy possess? Nelos's face darkened and his eyes blazed, "Do you know how dangerous this is?" He tried to explain, "It's a long road for you to puberty. I can't save you from your own magic."

He'd been vacillating subconsciously on the boy's fate and came to the conscious realization that he couldn't kill him, and he was too valuable to abandon to the wasteland. He was practically an infant, but he was preternaturally intelligent, angelically beautiful, and already commanding Warp magic few Elder espers had mastered. Despite what he'd told the boy, he fully intended to protect and nurture him, win his loyalty, and recruit him into his family—possibly as his godson. However, he had to neutralize him first or risk him becoming a magicka devouring Void.

Nelos approached Father Eucharist. "I'm going to check the attic for vermin. How many floors are there in this wing?" he asked.

Eucharist looked at James, who nodded. "Two," he answered.

It irked him that the priest required James's consent. The question was nothing more than a courtesy—recognition for sitting James for the past two weeks, as if his patronage was worthy. "Thank you," Nelos replied and added, "sycophantic mind slave," in a derisive undertone.

Father Eucharist stood and faced Nelos, validating the epithet with his reply. "There is no greater glory than to serve our heavenly Father in these times of tribulation and atonement, and the Lord's will is made manifest through this boy. I pledge my life to aid him and will defend him with whatever power God grants me for as long as I live. Even if, so help me, I have to contend directly with the Devil." He glared meaningfully at Nelos.

The implication was not missed, and Nelos replied sarcastically, "Of course you do, but the meaningless slaughter of a doddery old man is a poor sacrifice when we have this beautiful little Lamb here to appease his Almighty's bloodlust." He gestured to James and disappeared into thin air.

He reappeared again a moment later, tousled the boy's hair, and said praisingly, "You're right, tiny Lord, there are six raiders up there looking for the attic door."

James nodded, smiling at the appellation. The friars were carrying the bandaged nun through a secret door hidden in the kitchen paneling and into a dark narrow alcove. They returned and stacked some crates in front of the secret panel.

"You're not going to ask me nicely to teleport them into a radioactive crater?" Nelos asked.

James's eyes widened. "If you do, more will come looking for them, and they won't be as gullible as these," he explained.

Nelos scoffed, gestured towards the boy and said, "That's hardly a problem for you, is it? He pointed out the friars, who were happily cleaning up blood, "Everyone is as gullible as an infant in your care." He silently added, _and besides, I'm taking you away with me tonight_.

"Why are my robes bloody?" asked Julian, peeling them off and checking himself for wounds before tossing them into the fire. Father Eucharist tended the flames with a poker, bathing the bloody garments in flame, neglecting his own gore spattered attire.

Sean finished wiping blood from his arms and face and threw his towel to Julian. He chose a robe from a basket of dirty laundry and said, "That's beet juice, genius. Here, put this on. I'll start the borscht." He hung a kettle over the fire and began singing a hymn as he went about his culinary preparations.

Nelos concluded that the child had made the friars forget about Clara. "What are you trying to accomplish by helping this woman?" he asked James seriously. He put on a menacing glare and said, "There's only one thing I can do if you continue to abuse your magic."

"I still have a little magic left to use before I... _it_ turns on me. I keep track." James said. He looked tentatively at Nelos and offered, "You can choose how I use it."

"Are you testing me or threatening me?" asked Nelos jokingly, slightly alarmed by the child's talent and intelligence. "What's the difference? I'd have you not use it at all until you can do so safely." After enduring James's endearing deadpan expression, he conceded, "Okay, I'll bite; what do you propose?"

James considered and said, "You should know that those people are cannibals. If they see me, one option is that they might eat beets and believe they ate me."

Nelos raised a skeptical eyebrow and interrupted, "Don't be coy. Illusion isn't my forte', but even I could make them believe that—were I inclined to let them live, which I am not. My apologies to Sister Clara, but, honestly, your friends are screwed, so consider them dead as well. Now, what alternative do we have?" he asked, touching his sword and guiding James to what he considered the best scenario.

"You mustn't kill them," pleaded James. "No one here must die tonight. The future I've planted depends on their descendants. Not only should everyone survive, but they should remember tonight's events, for because of what's about to happen they will build the fortress city in which _your_ Queen, the Lady Astarith, will be safely harbored. And there she will bear you a goddess to heal the Earth and help bring your eternal foes to their knees. _Your_ future is in their hands."

"What?" Nelos laughed half-heartedly, his attention fixed on the boy. He instantly appeared before James. "Don't fuck with me, James. What do you mean? 'The future I've planted?' Astarith is hardly my queen! And… _what eternal foes_?" he asked incredulously, his wide eyes dancing with dangerous intensity. He laid his hands with deliberate intent on the boy's thin shoulders to emphasize his seriousness.

"Leave him alone," growled Father Eucharist, deftly swinging a hot poker at Nelos. Before he could land the blow, Father Eucharist disappeared, poker and all.

Seeing this, the friars took offense and challenged Nelos. Armand, who was easily the largest of the three, took up a skillet and bellowed, "Get out of this house you foul demon of Hell!" before he too vanished. Julian—who had been chopping onions and parsley on a platter at one of the benches—took up his knife in futile defense. Sean reached for the kettle, prepared to throw its boiling contents at the sorcerer, but wisely aborted the notion and raised his hands saying, "Please, hurt me if you want, but don't hurt the child. James, tell him to hurt me instead!"

"Yes, hurt us if you have to," Julian agreed, "but please don't hurt James!"

"Not a bad idea, monk." Nelos addressed James darkly, "Speak, James. Do I _need_ to spill their guts so that you'll spill yours? Explain yourself now. Are you saying that I will be a father?"

James replied shakily, "Yes, but I'll tell you everything when we're done here."

A rising commotion in the hall revealed itself to be three men and a woman, all wild and filthy and bearing crude weapons as they spilled through the kitchen doors with Armand in tow.

Julian cried, "Armand! Thank the Lord you're alive! Where's Father Eucharist?" and leapt to help him to his feet.

Nelos finally turned from James and observed the newcomers with rising interest. The savage men dumped Armand and his skillet onto the floor and filed forth, summing up their hosts. The sun had set and the priory was darkening fast now, having no electricity. The kitchen was lit only by the fire and a torch held by one of the intruders. The leader of the gang—a tattooed brute with filed teeth, clad in leathers and distinguished by a necklace of gruesome relics—loudly said, "That's what I'd like to know! Where's the Eucharist? We're here for our supper!" and laughed at his joke.

Nelos laughed with the savages and said, "You mean, your _last_ supper." Behind him, Sean had stealthily rescued James from sight and ushered him behind a rack of cider barrels.

"What the fuck? Y'all got a fucking butler?" the woman snickered and the men laughed.

Yeah, that's right, Lurch," the savage said, looking over Nelos with equal parts amusement and suspicion, "because I didn't finish her before that hand-wringing, Bible-thumping, lily-livered son-of-a-whore came and interrupted us." He slapped his gloved palm once for each epithet with a wooden baseball bat wound with barbed wire, undoubtedly wounding himself for the sake of dramatic effect.

There was a cry and a huge clatter and thumping caused by one of the savage intruders tripping over a crate and sprawling into the stacks of apples and beets obscuring the hidden panel in the wall. "What the…" came up through the ruckus.

His comrades laughed and a man with a spiked mohawk and a torch jumped over to survey the wreck saying, "Sikes, you fucking moron, get off your stoned ass." As he lit up the scene, he said, "Fuck me on a crucifix. Hey Lincoln, the god wads were holding out on us!" The friars each held their breaths as the men looked around in awe.

Lincoln, the man with the bat, went to view the scene of the fuss. He picked up an apple and bit into it. "Mmmm. Mmm mmm mmm." He held it out and asked, "Where'd you get the groceries boys?"

Armand stepped forward and challenged, "We _grow_ it and then give all we can to the sick and the hungry." He started repacking the spilled crates, attempting to cover the panel hiding Clara. "We trade seeds so others can grow food. Sister Clara and Father Eucharist were trying to contact Remy to trade for meds, but then you attacked them like animals! We're not holding out! Take what you want and leave us alone!"

A svelte man carrying a torch entered the kitchen and walked directly to Lincoln, shaking his head. "No Clara, no Eucharist, no anybody else," he said in a gravelly voice. "What's going on?" He looked around at shelves crammed with jars of preserved food, immediately comprehending the scene and leaping agilely onto the bench top to survey it. "What's this?" he asked, displaying gazelle-like grace as he leapt to the second bench and shone his torch fully on Nelos and paused. "The fuck are you looking at, freak?" The irony was rich because the man on the bench was a ghoul. Much of his skin had been cooked by fallout and rotted away. He had no ears, receding lips, scant hair, and not much in the way of a nose. He looked like a rotting corpse, somehow alive and intelligent. And he was sensitive about his appearance.

"We were just taking inventory, Hector. Where's Barnes?" asked Lincoln.

Barnes came into the kitchen and gasped. She threw down her torch and started stuffing apples into her mouth. Sikes pushed her back and someone else swatted the apples from her hands. "You'll die eating like that," they said. "Fuck you!" Barnes screamed and pushed Sikes into the wall and through the secret panel hiding Clara. When Sikes clambered back out he said, "Guess who I found guys."

Nelos had been deliberating on how he could deal with the cannibals and friars without getting anyone killed. Having no clue how to resolve the situation without bloodshed, he'd decided to go with James's idea, albeit with a few poignant, but necessary, embellishments. He called out, "Excellent, you've sussed out your prey, but you're late and I've already started without you." He rubbed his hands together and said, "Let's eat!" The delicious smell of sizzling fat filled the kitchen as he pulled a spit from the fire. Two unidentifiable lumps plopped onto the platter of chopped onions and parsley.

Everyone was staring uncomprehendingly at Nelos and his mystery meat. He explained, "While you were gorging on apples, I was performing a secret double mastectomy." Addressing Lincoln, he continued, "Your fascination with breasts intrigued me and, well, I decided I just _had_ to try it for myself." He found some cutlery and sawed off a portion of a breast and popped it into his mouth. "Mmm," he nodded dubiously, chewing, and coughed, "a bit fatty for my taste. I wonder about her buttocks…" He handed his fork to Lincoln—who dumbly accepted it—and pushed the plate towards him. "Please, help yourself," he said.

Julian and Sikes pulled Sister Clara from her hiding place. Her bandages were loose and blood-soaked, her breasts missing. "What have you done, demon!" accused Armand. Barnes stared hauntedly at the bloody nun being lifted onto the bench. The ghoul jumped from his bench top, thrust his torch onto the other woman and removed Clara's bandages. "She's dead meat," he said to Sikes, "don't waste your stims."

"She's not dead," stated Julian, feeling her weak pulse. "If anyone has nano meds, hand them over now or burn in Hell for murdering a nun!" He searched the savages' faces. Lincoln set his fork down, sighed, and said, "Let her die, boy."

"James," Julian cried, "tell him to hand over his stims."

James had been struggling to get around Sean—who had him blocked behind the cider barrels all this time—and finally managed to slip through Sean's legs and out of his grasp. He ran towards Sister Clara, then—as everyone's attention riveted upon him—he tripped and seemed to execute a cartwheel that ended in him flying up into the air over the second bench, near Clara's ruined figure, where he remained unaccountably suspended upside down, arms and legs flailing. "Dessert, anyone?" Nelos asked the group, placing a large mixing bowl under James's head.

The fire under the mantelpiece and on the three scattered torches suddenly flared and everyone cried out in alarm as shadows congealed and writhed in nightmarish shapes. The shapes seemed corporeal as they danced clammily over everyone's skin. Bulging eyes opened upon them and salivating mouths protruded, barking and gnashing sharp teeth. Obscene whispering and guttural clicking filled the room as the shadows molested Nelos's agitated audience. "Who's got the medicine? Give us the medicine!" some would later attest they'd heard.

"Oh shit, a fucking demon! No, no, no, no, no. This ain't real man," whimpered Sikes. "Take my stims! Take them! I don't want to burn in Hell!" he screamed, too terrified to move.

Hector offered, "Here take it," pulling a vial from his boot and tossing it to Julian. Then he feinted and, with a flash of steel, threw a blade at Nelos.

"Mind your manners, zombie," warned Nelos, after plucking the knife from its trajectory with impossible speed. Then he smiled and produced Hector's blade with a flourish, tapping it against James's exposed belly. "You nearly hit our Lamb. As your host, I insist upon carving."

The shadows had transformed Nelos's chiseled features into a demonic mask. His wicked smile and glowing eyes convinced all around that he was not only a demon, he was undeniably evil, incredibly dangerous, and an irreconcilable foe. "I will not indulge this behavior," he chastised the motley crowd. "This is a dinner party, not a hillbilly hootenanny." It didn't matter what he said at that point and he knew it.

A deafening boom sundered the awed silence and Father Eucharist stepped into the kitchen chambering a smoking pump-action shotgun.

"Father, welcome back. We are now twelve—if Clara lives, that is—let us dine in this Holy Communion," pronounced Nelos, unconcerned by the weapon trained on him. He drew Hector's blade across James's throat and filled a pitcher under the resulting bloody gout. He raised the pitcher to the appalled rabble and toasted the communion, "To nun murdering cannibals. I'll see you all to Hell." And then he drank.

Father Eucharist's jaw fell agape as he surveyed the macabre tableau with horror. Tears welling in his eyes dried and his face hardened. "Let's see you catch this, demon," he said and pulled the trigger.

Nelos caught the buckshot handily and pandemonium ensued.


	3. Chapter 3: The Emperor and the Boy with

**Chapter 3: The Emperor and the Boy with No Clothes**

"They weren't really cannibals, were they?" Nelos asked pensively.

"No, you were the only cannibal tonight," James answered petulantly. "Or you would be, if you were human, and it was still night," he amended weakly.

"The filed teeth, the necklace, the nun, even the quips about supper—it was all plausible until I cut your throat and everyone had a cow. You lied to me," admonished Nelos.

"Sometimes it's necessary. Why did you eat Clara's boob?" asked James disapprovingly.

"I was hungry," lied Nelos flippantly. "You know," he propped himself up on his elbow facing the boy in the steaming spring, "you have no reason to treat me with such contempt, little master. I did everything you wanted. I gave everyone a common enemy, and Father Eucharist really stepped up and rallied the troops. They're all war buddies on a mission for Christ's sake now, and _no one_ perished." He considered his patience to be legendary, but he couldn't keep the peevishness from his voice. He was not accustomed to being criticized, especially by humans who owed him their lives.

"I thought it was because of the tumors," said James. "I mean, the mastecomy," he flushed and climbed from the hot pool, reaching for his dirty clothes.

"Mastectomy," Nelos corrected, casually teleporting the pile of clothes three feet further from James. "Don't put those back on, you silly goose, or I'll toss you right back into the water. I know a young prince your size; we'll take his best silk kimono."

"We're going to steal from a prince?" James asked with mixed awe and opprobrium.

"Well, unless you'd like to ask him for a change of clothing in your inimitable, charming way," Nelos replied with a wink. Standing, he put his hands together and opened a mini portal. "Let's just see if he's home."

"Where are we now?" James asked, admiring the lush vegetation and overhanging cliff walls.

"Kauai," replied Nelos. "It's one of the Hawaiian Islands," he explained, noting James's blank look. "There's no fallout here, but there are zombies, dragons, and some unsavory natives."

"It isn't polite to call them zombies," said James severely. His hands were covering his privates as he waited on Nelos. "They like to be called ghouls."

Nelos scoffed and smiled at the modest, precocious boy. "Not these ones—they're not mutants. They're the walking dead. A necromantic offshoot of Gruemanuel's Wracks, I think, that vile homunculus. They feast on the living. A single bite will infect you and then you'll die too and walk amongst them knowing nothing but hunger; and, like ghouls and knobs, you cannot compel them. In most places, their populations are efficiently culled by vampires, but here there are none due to the sage Avallac'h. Let's go, young master."

Nelos half knelt, holding out his hand to James. James looked around once more at the dramatic beauty of the landscape surrounding them. He exulted at this news. _Not able to compel ghouls and knobs, he thinks?_ he silently mused. To conceal his pride, he mimicked wonderment, "Dragons and vampires?" eyeing Nelos with mistrust. "You're fibbing me." Then he put his tiny hand into Nelos's.

Like before, there was no sensation of moving, no rushing wind as he expected, but the sudden cold air on his naked wet skin, the surrounding sounds of talking and laughter, and the cloying smell of incense jolted him. He scanned his surroundings with growing humiliation and felt betrayed.

They had arrived in a majestic Japanese palace hall filled with half-naked attendants and richly dressed courtesans, nobles, magistrates and children. His resentment toward Nelos stewed as half the court oohed in astonishment, while the other, younger population giggled and pointed. He could not understand their language, but he felt their derisive amusement and read their concupiscent thoughts all too well. _Do not look at me!_ he commanded everyone silently, and with sounds of dismay and anguish, they obeyed. He struggled on his toes to keep from hanging from towering Nelos's grasp while keeping his privates shielded from sight with his free hand.

Nelos pulled him awkwardly through the crowd toward a stepped dais where a pallid fat man in splendorous silken garments and regal headdress reclined in a nest of plush cushions with two comely young boys. His posture tensed and his expression stiffened in dread as he noticed Nelos's approach. James could easily guess why, but he read him anyway. This man was wondering how Nelos survived a nuclear detonation set off by an Elder friend of Nelos's under compulsion and whether Nelos knew if he was the one who compelled the pusher that compelled the elf. _A fellow pusher, then_ , he mused interestedly, also wondering if Nelos knew of this convoluted scheme and if things were about to get ugly.

"Konichiwa, Hasaki-sama," Nelos said to the astonished man and continued to speak amicably in fluent Japanese. Then he gestured to James and said, "The young master Michaelis here would like to have one of your finest silk kimonos. Will you oblige him?"

"Hai, Nelos-sama," Hasaki croaked through painted lips and frantically issued orders to the cowering attendants at his back. They looked up, searching blindly for James and chattering in Japanese. The exchange erupted into an unbecoming fit of yelling and face-slapping on Hasaki's part. The attendants dropped to their knees and pushed their faces into the dais floor. With barely concealed chagrin, Hasaki finally addressed Nelos in English, "Nelos-sama, please forgive us," he bowed magnanimously, "but we do not understand your meaning—there is no young master with you," he apologized.

Nelos glanced down at James and understood. "Ah, I see. You are not permitted to defile the young master's chastity with your lecherous eyes. Well then, for the purpose of fitting him, I estimate his proportions to be equal to those of your young prince gaishan—or perhaps twelve times smaller than your fat ass, if it pleases your Corpulent Virtuosity," he stated, without a hint of impropriety. At Hasaki's blank look, he explained, "Verily, a young human boy stands naked at my side yet none can behold him! Do you see the water pooling onto the floor here—he's just come from a bath. Turn your head and you may discern his white skin in periphery. He is, if nothing else, a _hundred_ times the psycher you imagine yourself to be, and he is _beautiful_ ," Nelos smiled. "Can you imagine why he's concealed himself?" he asked. Then he whispered conspiratorially, "I bet you've never fucked an invisible psycher, have you, Kato?"

Hasaki's face went livid with impotent fury and the gathering court began to murmur and mill in embarrassed confusion. He pressed his forehead to the varnished wooden floor to hide his face. It was a posture, like that of his attendants, of absolute submission. Nelos grimaced at the display with impatience. Four samurai surrounding the dais put their hands on their weapons and assumed fighting stances. Seeing this he said, "Compel your guard to stand down, Hasaki-sama, or suffer dismemberment." Hasaki complied hesitantly, barking at each samurai individually, and resumed his obeisant posture.

"Please let go," James begged Nelos—he had been trying to wriggle free from Nelos's grip. His hand was immediately relinquished, and James fell awkwardly onto his butt. "Why are you embarrassing me like this," he hissed, rubbing his sore bottom.

"My young lord," Nelos exclaimed innocently, bending to look squarely into James's flinching face, "What an unfair accusation! It is not my intention to embarrass you, but to dress you as you deserve—as befits an unrivaled young psycher in a land ruled by despotic compulsion. Besides," he smirked, "I'm apparently the only one here who can see you."

 _How?_ James searched Nelos's beaming eyes and whispered, "How can you can look at me?" He frenetically attempted to enter Nelos's thoughts without success. It was as if he wasn't there, though he could empathically sense rising annoyance emanating from him. For the first time, he feared the eldritch sorcerer, but he could not compel him—would not compel him for fear of ruining his plans. Tears of stress welled in his eyes. The humiliation they brought broke his composure.

"Hmph," Nelos had straightened and was looking down his nose at James. He polished his elegant white nails on his lapels, and stated with arrogant aplomb, "I am Nelos, of course I can look at you." Seeing James's tears, however, he softened and confessed, "I'm quite fond of you, young master, and I'd be remiss not to take precautions before setting foot in this den of iniquity. And it would shame me if I failed to protect your entrancing blue eyes from any retaliatory mutilation I might wantonly wreak upon them—purely in self-defense." He tisked, regretting the counterproductive effects of his ministrations. "I expected you'd be the one I had best defend against. Dry your tears, young lord. Your offense was minor and no punishment is warranted. Come, let's attend to business."

Nelos turned and beckoned to one of the children adorning Hasaki's opulent throne of cushions. A wide-eyed boy in a half-open kimono reluctantly rose and approached Nelos with trepidation. His neck and legs showed dark bruises. Speaking in Japanese, Nelos asked the shy boy's name—Kei—and bade him to find Akira. "Follow Kei and get some clothes on, then return with Akira," Nelos ordered James. "Do not tarry and do _not_ use your magic again unless you are in mortal peril. And James," he admonished sternly with a hand on his shoulder, "do not tempt my wrath with deceit as Emperor Hasaki has done." He turned James toward Kei's receding figure and gave him a little push. "Now hurry along—it's already well past your bedtime."

As he hastened on his way, James looked back at the sorcerer to see him sigh and place his shining boot on Hasaki's well-appointed head. Hasaki had listened to Nelos's exchange with the invisible boy and had lifted his prostrate head to determine where he might be, but he was incapable of overcoming James's compulsion. Hasaki's thoughts were reeling and James read them easily: _There_ is _someone there, but it is too late!_ _Nelos is angry. He wants heads now. All I can do now is try to redirect his anger unto an appropriate target and appease him with a grandiloquent display of submission. Surely that will placate his notorious temper._ Hasaki couldn't imagine how Nelos could have determined his culpability in the meticulously executed coup he had devised against him, and he therefore considered himself to be genuinely innocent. He was actually glad of Nelos's imperious assistance in forcing his face to the floor with his boot. It was a good sign, it was something he himself did when punishing Akira. But, when Nelos spoke, he did not hear the abuse he craved. His heart sank with the appalling conviction that Nelos _knew_ , and his ignominious supplication became surprisingly genuine.

"You believed I would not return, did you, Hasaki-sama? Well, here I am. You should have chosen your enemies better." The entire court was in Nelos's thrall—no one leapt forward and offered to defend or die for the emperor. He picked up a flask of sake and took a deep swig from it, casually noting a pretty young geisha who was eyeing him seductively from behind her fan. "I've had a long day chasing the sun, and I'm ravenous," he said, licking his lips libidinously for her. He tore his eyes away and looked down at Hasaki, prodding the emperor's head with his boot. "Are you hungry, your Excellency? I'll make a deal with you: If you pluck out your own eyes and eat them, I promise to chop off your head with a single stroke. Otherwise—if you make me do all the work—I'll eviscerate you and strangle you with your own intestines."

Hasaki cowered and blubbered, turning over awkwardly on the floor to kiss the sole of Nelos's boot. He begged pathetically for his life as he had seen many others do, offering Nelos his empire, his possessions, his undying fealty, information—even Akira and his soul were bid. Nelos cut him off, "Is that a no?" He looked incredulous. "You're kidding me!" he exclaimed and sighed long-sufferingly. "Very well. Unlike you, I'm not afraid of hard work."

All this James heard as he followed Kei—neither could resist looking back at the groveling emperor. As he exited the grand hall, the last thing he heard was the metallic song of Nelos's sword leaving its scabbard and the screaming of the court.

The imperial palace was impressively expansive and it took almost five minutes of stairclimbing, running pell-mell down wide avenues, through gardens, over bridges, around porches, and through exquisite room after room—all while trying to shield himself from the sights of passersby—before Kei finally entered Akira's chamber and began speaking rapidly to him in Japanese. _I will have to master reading the language parts of people's brains_ , James thought, because it was obvious Kei couldn't have been saying what he was thinking: That he hoped the emperor was dead and he hoped it was a gruesome, painful, prolonged, and humiliating death.

James ran to a great wardrobe and took a folded garment from it. Swaddling himself in the robe, he spoke into Akira's mind: _Where is your underwear?_ Up to this point, Akira was not surprised in the least by James—apparently it was normal here for kids to run around naked and steal each other's clothes. Akira looked at him now with reverence and answered, "In this drawer." He showed him the drawer and handed him a light pair of linen shorts, bowing as he did so.

"Oh good, you speak English," James said and pulled on the shorts, considering the fact that Akira had green eyes and blond hair, and—despite what Nelos said—he was at least a head and shoulders taller than him. _How did he become a prince here?_ he wondered. Kei was still chattering in rapid Japanese punctuated by dramatic cries, grunts, and other humorous sounds—his demeanor completely altered from the shy boy at the emperor's side—when Akira stopped him with regal forbearance and gestured toward James wondering who he was.

James rolled his eyes and removed his compulsion from Kei. Kei looked at him blankly, seeing him at last. "Huh?" he exclaimed.

Kei approached him and began questioning him in Japanese. "I don't speak Japanese," James said wearily, fending off the increasingly excited boy and feeling at a loss for the first time in for as long as he could remember—until he remembered Nelos. He looked at Akira and asked, "Do you know Nelos?" Akira's eyes widened and he nodded solemnly. "Well, Nelos wanted me to borrow your clothes and take you to meet him where Hasaki-sama is," he explained, suddenly worried that Akira was in danger.

"Oh! In that case, let me get you a better kimono," Akira said and, noticing James's wet hair, added, "I'll get you a towel too." He pulled a huge silk tassel and a distant bell rang. James was marveling at his chosen robe—how surreal the luxury and cleanliness of these people—as they waited when Akira pronounced, without a shred of emotion, "The emperor is dead." He repeated this to Kei in Japanese, who screamed with delight and began dancing around the room in a silly manner.

"Really? How do you know?" James asked, sincerely interested, but diverted by his reverie and Kei's joyous gallivanting.

"Because I don't love him anymore," Akira breathed with a tremulous sigh of relief.


	4. Chapter 4: Akira

**Chapter 4: Akira**

There was no wailing or gnashing of teeth, no sackcloth or ashes were donned, not a single lantern or stick of incense was lit to commemorate the passing of Emperor Kato Hasaki. Any tears shed were joyous, bittersweet ones over families reunited, memories returned, pain abrogated, repugnant deeds quitted, anecdotes effable, and slaves freed from psychic bondage. That said, it wasn't a peaceful or prosperous time either—in fact, it was absolute chaos—but none of this bothered Nelos in the slightest. "They'll work it out eventually. Not worth embroiling ourselves in their petty human drama," he said, raising a cup to the veritable harem of human geisha girls in the quarters he'd commandeered.

James and Akira had finally arrived in the great hall and immediately retched at the spectacle Nelos had made of Hasaki. They were greeted by an Elder ambassador named Ancano and redirected to Nelos's quarters from there by a summoned fire elemental. When Ancano first saw them, he immediately blasted half of the clamoring supplicants surrounding him off their feet with a single telekinetic blow, just to clear a path to the boys. He was apparently of the same mind as Nelos, but then Nelos was a god to all Elder. James and Akira sat down at Nelos's table with the conviction that there was something wrong with the Elder race, and it could all be chalked up to the fact that they were just too damned powerful.

"Welcome young protégés," he said gregariously upon James's and Akira's arrival. James wondered what a protégé was and what interest Nelos had in Akira. "Have a seat and tuck in." A low, spinning table was laden with a banquet of sushi, seafood, roasted duck, candied beef, rice cakes, and aesthetically arranged vegetables and salads with sake and tea. Despite the gruesome scene he'd just witnessed, the sumptuous repast tempted him and he ravenously dug in, savoring food that wasn't irradiated, dried, canned, or drugged. Akira picked fastidiously at his food with chopsticks, sipping tea and anxiously watching Nelos, who looked like a giant in comparison to the rest of the party. His long hair was wet and he wore a loose kimono. James guessed he'd had to bathe after killing Hasaki.

At length, Nelos stood and dismissed the girls in Japanese, unabashedly flirting and fondling and kissing them in places inappropriate for children's sight. He finally sent them off to his bed chamber and straightened the gaping kimono more securely around his naked torso. James promised himself that his carnal appetite would never be so blatantly paraded once he reached puberty, though he knew that all espers craved sex almost constantly and were notorious for going mad with lust. Nelos saw James's disapproving look and said, resuming his seat, "Don't be so self-righteous, young master. One day you'll be forced to battle your own Hunger and you'll remember me as a sensible, moderate elf. You can rest assured," he looked at Akira, "that I will _never_ force myself upon either of you. I take care of my needs and I will take care of you. For you, Akira and James, I want only to be a friend, philosopher, and guide."

James thought he'd have to be senile to see Nelos as sensible or moderate, but he wanted to change the subject. "How did you figure out that Hasaki-sama masterminded the plot to blow you up with a nuclear bomb?" he asked for his own edification.

Nelos blinked at him, composure otherwise unruffled, "Hasaki was involved in that fiasco? How so?"

 _Wait_ , _he didn't know?_ James chastised himself silently. He answered, "He compelled somebody to compel somebody—an Elder—to blow you up. You didn't know?" he asked, puzzled. "Then, why did you kill him? And why so… brutally?"

Nelos considered James shrewdly, "I killed him because I wanted Akira. Death is the only certain solution to standing compulsions. Remember that, young lord, and use your talent judiciously, or you'll find yourself beset by assassins," he advised paternally. "Why was I brutal?" Nelos assumed a pose like Rodin's Thinker. Hasaki was a repulsive worm, unworthy of his own talent, and unworthy of the attention he'd given him. He hadn't expected to be called out on it this - rather applauded. He deduced that James must have empathic talent because he couldn't have asked such a stupid question otherwise. He tried to answer it equitably. "Many elves have chided me for my attention to humans, but I feel a kinship with you. You've become my moral compass. I have stared so long into the abyss that the abyss has corrupted me—I treat it as a fellow fiend careless of golden rules. I treat it as I expect you'd like me to treat it, had you met it. You have never met Hasaki - talk to Akira."

He continued, less sanctimoniously, "Anyway, I'm certain that Hasaki wasn't the author of that plot." Countering James's raised eyebrow, he explained, "Pushers think they're so sly, covering their tracks with fall guys lined up like dominos; and, of course, every single one of them believes that they're the genius who wrote the manifesto. It's tedious watching their talents ruin them. I'll tell you a secret, young master: It doesn't matter if I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy who can tell if someone has been compelled; what matters is that I know my friends and enemies alike."

James nodded grimly, filing this information away for later use. He wanted to change the subject again so he asked Akira, "Are you an esper too?"

"Not really," replied Akira, who had been listening with interest, "I'm an Immortal."

Nelos saw James's quizzical expression and launched into a lecture, "All Warp children are Immortals—except you James. Immortals are unique among espers and are therefore not generally regarded as such. Their power is that they heal instantly and can regenerate limbs with incredible speed, but this ability is automatic and _not limited by Warp majicka_ —even though they're chock full of the stuff. So Akira will never be cursed with the Hunger; and, barring possession, he's, well, immortal. The only downside is that everybody wants to drink his blood and fuck him. Well, that and he is highly sensitive to compulsion. Not to mention the unfortunate fact that Immortals _are_ the best candidates to tame feral espers." James scoffed, but Nelos continued philosophically, "There is also merit to the argument that not being able to die in certain circumstances is a disadvantage—little Katy Milokovitch may yet survive, but she's been catatonic for over a year, not a thought in her head, moves only under compulsion, reduced to a spigot and an unresponsive sex doll—poor lass. They call her the sleeping beauty. What else…" he pondered, pouring himself more sake.

James looked at Akira with newfound awe and compassion, noticing for the first time his flawless skin, bright eyes, perfect teeth, and glowing health. Whatever humiliation and torture he'd endured from Hasaki would never have marred his body. "Why does everybody want to drink your blood?" he asked with morbid fascination.

"It has healing properties, and, hmm, it gets you high," said Akira shyly.

"It's a panacea—it cures all that ails you, and it boosts your majicka as well," Nelos expounded, rescuing the abashed Akira. "To Akira, _everyone_ is a vampire, and _vampires_ are... Well, don't worry about vampires, I do not suffer them to live, when I encounter one, much less keep their company. As for being fuckable, that's because he's such a wellspring of majicka." He explained enthusiastically, "You _do_ know that Warp majicka is stagnant, giving rise to a magical Hunger that it is easiest appeased by the psychic energy released in orgasm, don't you, young master? Good. Then it stands to reason that when I, a sorcerer and esper, fuck another esper, or otherwise magical person—both of us already possessing great majicka—my orgasm is far more powerful than when I fuck a regular person, so naturally preferable?"

James blushed uncomfortably ( _would he ever stop talking_?) and turned his head, but didn't censure him. Nelos continued, "My orgasm is not only more powerful, but it amplifies my majicka and satiates my Hunger much more... oh _never mind_! We've only _just_ begun to understand it, but I can see you're not interested. You can stop squirming. The topic of sex clearly disturbs you, but that is irrelevant. You happen to possess a dangerous magic that cannot be managed without orgasm. However, I'd wager that with Akira's assistance you could manage it. In exchange for my protection and guidance," he looked at Akira, "which we've already determined is essential to his wellbeing."

Akira understood what Nelos wanted from him and he smiled with relief and bowed submissively, "Of course." Then he looked at James tentatively and asked, "You're a telepath, aren't you? I heard your voice in my head earlier. I wasn't sure if I just imagined it or not because you're so… young—I've never heard of an esper so young." He reached for an embroidered satchel beside him and removed a catheter from it, unwinding a spool of clear tubing.

James watched in shock as Akira expertly punctured a vein on his arm with the device and filled a teacup with his blood. "Please, it's okay." said Akira, trying to soothe him. "I've done this a thousand times. It's not so bad." James didn't trust Akira's definition of 'not-so-bad,' and he curled his lip at the cup of blood. Akira confessed, "It works much better as a transfusion, but I didn't want to scare you. This isn't sterile, but it'll be okay," he inserted a needle into the end of the tube and offered it to James, who looked at the needle dubiously. Akira looked from James to Nelos and colored, thinking he'd done something wrong. He bowed to Nelos the same way Hasaki had done and cried, "Nelos-sama, James-sama, please forgive me! I would be honored to serve you! Please give me a chance!"

"Excellent!" said Nelos. The catheter tubbing snaked magically toward him and before James could even blink, Nelos had slipped its needle into his forearm. The effect was immediate and ecstatic. The radiation sickness James had acquired in the wasteland suddenly vanished and he felt lightened, sharpened, and filled with energy and majicka. He didn't want to resist—couldn't understand why he would even think of resisting. It was incredible. He felt as if he could fly if he wanted to. He was omnipotent.

"Oh wow! Do you feel this way all the time?" he asked delightedly and pushed his senses into Akira's. "You do! Or you don't—I feel too goo-ood to tell!" he laughed, jumped up jubilantly, and flapped his arms, causing the needle to come out. "Woo, I'm a superhero! The Psycho Psycher, they call me! Here to save the day and blow your mind away! Look out you villainous elf! Your murderin', whorin' days are over! Stand and fight me, blackguard! Or are you too chicken?" he cried, striking a ridiculous pose.

"That's enough of that, you little junkie," Nelos said, picking up Akira's teacup and downing the blood in one shot. "I don't think we'll be needing any more transfusions," he sighed with pleasure, running his finger around the inside of the teacup and licking it lasciviously. James was making karate sounds and running around the room, kickboxing an invisible enemy. Akira's demure smile broke into laughter.

"Nelos, I have _all_ my majicka back and I know what you're thinking!" called James warningly.

Nelos teleported into James's path, causing him to crash against his long legs. "Then you know you're about to get a spanking for violating the privacy of my thoughts, don't you?" he said. He threw James over his shoulder, spanked him, and walked back to the table.

James pounded his fists against Nelos's back, laughing and screaming, "Unhand me you kidnappin' creeper! I'll fix you! And then I'll kill ya, you vile, boob-eatin' demon from Hell! Fight me like a man!"

Nelos set James down next to Akira and poured a tiny cup of sake. He incanted a calming spell into it and handed it to James saying, "Drink this, Psycho Psycher, or I'll freeze you until you settle down." James tasted it and made a face of exaggerated disgust. "I can teleport it into your stomach if the taste offends you, though I'm not always a hundred percent accurate with invasive procedures, as Clara can attest. No? Good. Now that your magic is safe and your reason has returned, I'd like to discuss what you told me in the priory and before. You said that I was very old, that Astarith would bear my child, that eternal foes would be defeated, and that you would help me. Now, my young lord, what exactly did you mean?"


	5. Chapter 5: The Teacup Prophesy

**Chapter 5: The Teacup Prophesy**

"I meant what I said," said James languidly, distracting himself in the task of stacking plates and bowls delicately atop one another. "You're three million, eight hundred forty-two thousand years old. What don't you understand about that?"

"How the hell you know it, for one thing," said Nelos, bemused, "and for another, why I should believe you when not even I remember my birthday."

"My mother told me," James replied. Then he admitted, "It's only a rough estimate based on a sketchy conversion to solar time because none of her people knew exactly when you were born—only when you rose to power and cursed them all. And she said that you were able to skip through time, cloning avatars of yourself. Would I know that if I was lying?"

"Your mother?" Nelos asked, perplexed. He absentmindedly passed a narrow, bamboo sushi dish to James. "To my knowledge, Catherine Michaelis was a mere witch in her thirties. She died shortly after you were born—in 2273, the year the last portal was overtaken by the Warp Storm. She endured the Warp longer than anyone else—though time is different there—but she came out possessed. She knew little of my history, and you couldn't possibly have spoken to her." He looked askance at James and asked, "Do you mean that the demon possessing your mother was the one who told you this?"

"They were both my mothers," James replied, gingerly arranging a pair of chopsticks between two plates and balancing a saucer on them.

Akira's jaw dropped open and he gaped at James with overt fear and revulsion. He crept back against the gold leaf screen partitioning the room, away from James.

Nelos took a deep breath. "I see. Did it tell you its name?" he asked, attempting to tease out how much James knew of his birth. "Who was this demon? I can summon it if I know its name. Wouldn't you like to see your mother again?" he cajoled.

"Her name was Cymorril and she was an Ancient. She called you the Kinslayer, if that makes sense," James answered. His face hardened. "And you can't summon her because she's gone. You know that she was destroyed when I was born—you're the one that killed her." Seeing Nelos's expression, he quickly added, "I don't blame you—believe me. She was trying to possess me when you destroyed her. I owe you my life." Then he looked around at Akira and blurted, "And I'm not possessed!"

"I remember her," Nelos said, his mouth straightening into a grim line. "She was particularly vicious, even by demonic standards, so I didn't bother to sit down to a meet and greet; still, there's nothing familiar in her name." He continued skeptically, "So this ancient Cymorril groomed you in gestation? I take it that she was one of my _eternal foes_?"

James nodded, "Just one of thousands of ancient foes and their demon hoards who ride the Warp Storm through the universe devouring souls and annihilating worlds in search of you. They _are_ the Warp Storm."

Nelos laughed, "The Warp Storm is made up of my cursed eternal foes? You were right, my little lord! I _am_ glad I saved you! You're a riot—the most entertaining sidekick I've had in years!" He narrowed his eyes at James, "Do you know how many times I've been in the thick of the Storm? Lots. And not once was a hair on my head molested nor a malignant eye cast in my direction. The Warp Storm has no reason or form—much less purpose."

James looked at Nelos pathetically, "They didn't expect you to be demon, that's why."

Nelos cringed and said, "That doesn't even dignify a response."

"But _now_ they know," James continued, looking squarely at Nelos, "and they know where you are too. You can keep running away from them like you've been doing for the past three million years, watching your friends fall and be subsumed by the Storm, or you can stand against them and fight to save this world." He added, "with my help, that is," standing and delicately filling a teacup on the top of the neurotic stack of dishes he'd made. "And that's not nothing—you think I'm a good psycher?" He sat down and gestured at his cluttered sculpture, throwing Nelos a mischievous grin. "Watch and learn."

James gently spun the wheeled part of the table so that the strange tower of dishes faced the door, which presently sounded with a knock and slid open to reveal a young attendant with a tray. "You can take these away," he told the bowing attendant, pointing to the dishes.

With quiet efficiency, the adolescent took his tray and approached the table. Akira, moving his own dishes for the attendant, nudged the wheel accidentally. The attendant's hand consequently brushed the tower and he struggled to reclaim the teetering pile from certain collapse. He overcompensated and lost his balance, hitting the cantilevered saucer and causing the entire mess to erupt. At that moment, James spun the table and the dishes scattered noisily across it. The teacup at the top was knocked around by the attendant's frantically grasping hands and it soared and flipped in the air, until it finally dropped with a neat splash into one of the frozen attendant's defeated hands. Incredibly, not a drop of tea was spilt.

"Gomen'nasai, watashi o yurushitekudasai!" apologized the boy, his eyes squeezed shut, his body immobilized by abject fear. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the teacup with startled amazement.

A bouncing cherry rolled from the table and onto Nelos's lap. Nelos plucked it up and ate it. "Interesting, quite impressive," he admitted, nodding to James with reluctant admiration. He made to toss the pit onto a plate, but gasped at the last second, seeing James's work. The cherry pit fell wide of its mark. Across the table, a word was spelled out in dishes and spilled leftovers, it was punctuated by a chopstick and the cherry pit: Thanks!

"Have a cup of tea," James told the attendant, smiling and miming sipping tea. He looked back at Nelos and proudly announced, "I'm a way better seer than I am a psycher."

Nelos didn't answer. He was gazing incredulously at the table, thinking that this feat required far more than Sight, yet he neither saw nor sensed any magic in play.

Akira finally noticed the writing on the table and any vestige of fear he had of James turned into adoration. He stood back to look at the table, unable to stop complimenting James, "Nande! This is the craziest magic I've ever seen!"

James bowed waggishly and thanked his adoring fan. Then he sobered and asked Nelos, "Do you believe me now? Will you stand and fight with me?"

Nelos looked at the boy dumbfounded until he realized James wasn't challenging him but continuing his previous discussion. He cleared his throat, dismissed the penitent attendant and turned back to James. "You want to fight the Warp Storm?" he asked and tried to explain the enormity of the situation to the boy. "You're a consummate esper—brilliant really. Indeed you have no equal amongst the Elder. However, none of this qualifies you as Earth's guardian. Your precognition is compelling (no pun intended), but honestly—how can _you_ protect this planet from an invasion of vengeful, space-bending demonic aliens?"

James answered the eagerly awaited question enthusiastically, "That's where Astarith comes in. She will give birth to a daughter with super powerful magic—like you, she'll come to be worshipped like a goddess—and she'll have talents that defy death and baffle demon fighting tactics. She'll be the greatest healer and singer ever, and she'll be an ally to everyone—humans and Elder. And she'll be beautiful and—but I don't want to spoil it for you. I can't wait for you to meet her Nelos!"

Nelos raised his eyebrow at James's optimistic prophesy. "I'm still skeptical about my ability to reproduce. When will this Isis be born, master seer?" he asked with prurient interest. "It'll take me at least twenty years to seduce that bloody bitch Astarith, and another hundred to fill her with my seed."

James gave him an annoyed look, "Actually Nelos, I'm sorry but you won't be the father. _I_ will, so we don't have to worry about seducing her. At most, it'll take me two hundred years to get her pregnant," he blushed, "but that will be just in time before the Ancients get here."

Nelos frowned at James. He was about to say that that was impossible, that humans and Elder were incompatible species, had vastly different genetic morphologies, and therefore could not breed; but then he considered the table and the improbability of the word spelled thereupon. _Is it possible?_ he wondered. If so, then perhaps _nothing_ was impossible for James, the master of probability. Indeed, the very meaning of 'impossible' was rendered moot by the miracle of the guileless five-year-old sitting here speaking to him with the faculties of a sage, planning the birth of a goddess, planning the future of the world. He felt a profound admiration for the boy and hoped that it was mutual. It pleased him that their relationship had progressed so well in the short time they'd spent together. In that instant, he resolved to collaborate with James in his daring scheme to save the world.

"I distinctly remember you saying that Astarith was to be _my_ queen," Nelos remembered. "You told me that I would be a father. Now you contradict yourself and seek to cuckold me. Was that another lie?" he teased.

James sensed Nelos's resolution and with effulgent satisfaction he explained, "No, not technically, Astarith will be the _Elder_ queen together with Mab—after they betray you and take over Avalon. And you _will_ be a father, once we win against the Ancients."

Nelos held up a long finger, "Ah, I think I spy a flaw in this future. You see, Astarith and Mab want to reopen the portals - you know, the ones swarming with demons that are hounding me - and I'm reasonably sure that they were the principal instigators of the apocalypse - the one that killed over nine tenths of the human population in one year. _Mab_ tried to kill me. _Me!_ Now, call me cynical or paranoid, but I have to ask: Why the hell would I ever let Astarith and Mab invade my home and depose me?"

"Because that's the plan," replied James insouciantly.

"Of course it is," said Nelos with disgusted stoicism. "I'm dying to hear how you intend to get Astarith, Mab, Imlerith, Avallac'h—or any Elder—to accept you as Archon, if that's also the plan. Will you compel the entire Elder population? Or will you become her gaishan and compel her to beget your bastard goddess whilst you spy on the royal Kabal? Will you compel them to abandon their Crone Worlds and live on the planet they wasted? Please, confide to me what devious plots you conspire."

James gave him a look of wounded surprise, "I'm not like that, Nelos! I'm on _your_ side—the good side! I need _your_ help to defeat the Ancients. They can't enter through the portals unless they possess someone inside first. Trust me! I don't _need_ to compel anyone, and I don't like underhanded tricks. Astarith will come to us, possessed by an Ancient and looking for you. We'll fake your death then, and I'll take her to the fortress city where she'll have Helena, and then we'll lay low until Helena is big enough to help us."

"I see you've thought this through, young master," sniffed Nelos, mollified. It would be an incredibly dangerous game, manipulating and siring a child upon a possessed Elder succubus of Astarith's power. He smiled, "You've even already picked out a name."

James smiled too. "Yes. That's what I'm _thinking_ about naming her. The future changes whenever my mind changes. Sometimes it's scary when I think that the future of this world depends on me making the right choices. No one else can ever find out that I'm a seer." He looked from Nelos to Akira. "If you let me, I can make sure that you will never reveal it on accident."

"Yes, it is scary," agreed Nelos, considering the young boy intently. "In fact, you are the scariest person I've ever met."


	6. Chapter 6: Vault 101

**Chapter 6: Vault 101**

"The kidney pain flared again and every muscle in her body recoiled. It was exhausting to even consider treatment. It should be an obvious decision—give up and get to the med bay or keep suffering, but that decision was swallowed by mind-numbing sickness. She took a deep breath and tried to focus, determined to swallow the pain and keep going—for the Vault. It couldn't be helped, she felt poisoned all over. Agony bloomed awash her entire body like cancer, and she violently hurled Andy's half-digested pancakes all over the Overseer's crotch. Unable to fight, she hopped in bed hoping for sweet oblivion—a good rest would surely cure everything. Now if only she was able to fall asleep."

 _Perhaps 'hopped in bed' is the wrong phrase. Maybe it should be, 'slammed her head into the bulwark.' Okey doke, gottcha. And change the final line to, 'Now if only she was allowed to die.' Yeah. Dad'll love it._

I'd been up all night writing a choose-your-own-terminal-disease program for my dad, Primary Vault Physician, but it had devolved into a pain description generator somewhere along the line. I'd compiled it from notes I'd taken from patient's descriptions—I'd never been sick or in pain, so it was kinda wonky and I wasn't feeling it. I'd never needed sleep either, so the whole thing was looking like a wash. _It's a good thing Dad sleeps or my life would be one big teabagging festival._ Dad was a consummate micromanager, among other things.

Sleeping hours are when I play. That's when the good stuff gets done. Well... good for me anyway. I felt a little guilty thinking about all the privacies I'd covertly raped. What they don't know won't hurt them. A little motto adopted from the Overseer. That shyster had a job keeping his skeletons hidden—you didn't have to be me to know it. But the rabbit hole went deeper than anyone guessed.

Dad had skeletons too. His weren't exactly hidden deep in the closet behind the porno stash where a decent person would keep them. Nope, he was an unrepentant, prolific lecher, banging every woman he met in an elevator or coaxed into a lav. I apprenticed under him, and the use he put to his examination table was all too clear. It was awkward and embarrassing to me, but women couldn't get enough of him. Husbands turned blind eyes. They completely ignored the sex-crazed pervert running amok amongst their womenfolk. He had always been that way. It only shocked me when I discovered that his favorite lover was my best friend Amata. Guess I should have seen it coming. I avoided spying on him after that, preferring ignorance. Just like everyone else.

My bedroom door hissed open and in barged the devil herself. 0716 hours. Not the devil I expected. "You've got to get out of here now! James has gone AWOL and my dad is pissed!" she said. I figured she was pranking me—payback for putting naked pictures of Butch on her desktop—but I was wondering why Dad hadn't come in to heckle me for being late for work as usual. _Fine, I'll bite._

I removed my earbuds and put on my trademark bored/annoyed face. "What do you mean, 'gone AWOL'?"

"James—ahem, your dad—opened the Vault Seal and escaped last night! Now my dad is on the warpath with Security. There's no time to explain—Officer Mack is headed here with a riot squad! He killed Jonas! They're going to kill you too!" She pulled me from my chair and forced me out of my bedroom towards the open apartment door. I could hear boots marching down the hall beyond. "Shit! It's too late!" she whined.

 _They found me out. I don't know how they did, but here they come!_ There was no time to think. I pulled her back into my room and opened the air vent on the wall. "Get in!" We dove in and I replaced the grate in the nick of time. I could hear Mack calling my name, "Jane Cadeuseus, this is Officer Mack of Security. Put your hands on your head and come out." Tear gas poured into the room.

"Go go go go go go!" I hissed. He was treating me as if I was armed and dangerous. I wondered if they'd discovered a discrepancy in the armory inventory. Something I missed. Cool air breezed against my face. _Crap! The fans are on_.

We slithered forward on our bellies past vent after vent, observing my stricken neighbors through them. The PA system spouted the Overseer's nasally voice, "This is a Vault emergency. I repeat, this is not a drill. Remain calm and return to your personal quarters at once. Any non-emergency personnel found outside their quarters will be subject to arrest and met with deadly force."

 _Which one? You can't have both, Traveon._ He must have been leaving it up to Security's judgement.

Old lady Palmer was facing Herman Vogel and his stun baton in her mumu. Officers Gibbon and Vasquez were ransacking her apartment. "If I find you've withheld information on the whereabouts of the traitor Jane Cadeuseus, I'll take you to the brig and we'll find all the sweet spots that make you squeal. All this shit," he gestured to her homey living space, "will be confiscated. Do you understand what I mean?" he asked, waving the electrified prongs dangerously close to her shriveled face. The goon squad left, kicking over a doily covered table for good measure.

 _Traitor? Me? Touché, douché._

"Oh my goodness James, what are you up to now?" old lady Palmer said, sinking into her afghan covered sofa.

"Yeah James," I whispered, following Amata's sneakers up a dark shaft, "what the hell are you up to?" _Did Dad really escape the Vault? Why didn't he take me? Bastard._ It wasn't hard climbing the metal shaft. The joint seams provided excellent hand and foot holds.

We arrived at the top of the shaft. "So this is how you sneak around. How often do you do this?" she asked, obviously worried that I'd seen her trysts with Dad. I arched an eyebrow and she colored deeply.

"I meant does this shaft lead to Admin?" she said, composing herself.

 _Of course that's all you meant._

Admin was fourteen levels up the Vault pyramid—the only level connected to the Seal. I guessed she was thinking to get there via ventilation shaft and help me escape from the Vault. A two meter fan blocked our path with spinning blades, so it was kind of pointless. But at least we could talk here.

"I have questions too—one question, really: What the hell is going on?" I asked. I held a palm up to her exasperated face, "Dad's AWOL, okay. So _how_ did Jonas die, and why are they coming after me?"

Actually, there were a million reasons they would—hacking the mainframe, pillaging the food store, reprogramming Andy, spying, drugging Security, stealing guns and Pip-Chips—to name a few, but I had a right to know what I was being charged with so that I could confess accordingly. I imagined Vogel, Vault Loyalty Inspector, with his sanctimonious smile widening as I confessed to seditious crimes and wetting himself as he rammed his stun baton up my ass, frying me like a hotdog in a grammar school science experiment. _Shit! Did they find my nest in the secret archive?_ _Not likely—not even Traveon was aware of the secret archive._

Amata was explaining in terse sentences, "Your dad left through the seal. They found Jonas's passprint in the Seal tunnel log. He denied using it. They beat him to death. Someone leaked the news. People started rioting. Security is under riot protocol. The spin is it's all your fault. You've got to leave now! Capishe? You're seriously telling me you don't know anything about this?" Amata asked, unconvinced. She must have used the Overseer Pip-Spy program we'd written. Didn't think it'd be this useful. "Were you the leak? Did you use Jonas's passprint?"

If Amata didn't believe me, who would? _Just my luck_. My voice stuck in my throat, "News to me. Figures I'd be busted for something I didn't do. Typical Vault justice. If I _had_ been there, I'd have left with Dad." I consulted my Pip-Boy, activating the Vault surveillance hack. "Born in the Vault, die in the Vault, my ass. He stole my idea, sneaky bastard, and he ruined it for me."

I switched the view to the Atrium just in time to see Rex Abbot take a bullet in the face from Winston Craig's .45. "What the _fuck_!" I exclaimed, "they just killed Rex!" I stared at the display in disbelief.

Amata seized my wrist and directed the holo video into her own eyes. She didn't seem that surprised. She pulled my wrist and urged, "We've got to get to Admin while Officer Craig is in the Atrium!"

"Right," I acknowledged, switching the view to the infirmary. It was empty—good. I recorded a few seconds of it, looped it, and fed it to Security. Then I pulled up a maintenance hack and went to 'ventilation'. _No point holding back now._

It took a tedious workaround to stop one individual fan, but soon enough, the giant whirring blades of death across the ledge from us slowed and came to a rest. We quickly climbed past, leery that the fan could start back up suddenly and slice us up like tomatoes in a blender.

"We've gotta cross over to another shaft in the infirmary," I explained thinking how apropos the moniker Tunnel Snakes was in so many ways. "I can get supplies there." _Rex_ _w_ _as a Tunnel Snake_ _._ We continued up several more shafts, around another fan, and through a series of HEPA filters and UV lasers before we slid out into the infirmary.

He hadn't been visible onscreen, but Jonas was there next to his desk. His lab coat was stained red from his crushed skull. His eyeballs and tongue were protruding obscenely. A bluish tinge dusted his brown skin. His fingers were crushed. He'd been tortured and strangled and bludgeoned. It was appalling. Jonas was a quiet intellectual with a squeaky clean record. This would likely be covered up as an accidental casualty. He would never have justice.

 _If you'd just told me Dad. I could have erased the passprints. Why did you do this?_

"Come on! Let's get moving!" Amata hissed, warily eyeing the opaque glass doors.

"Hold up a mo." I emptied Jonas's satchel into his desk and threw in some Rad-X, dilaudid, stim packs, and some other shit. I dug a heavy aluminum package from the bottom of the freezer in the lab and tossed it in too. I wondered if it was safe to fire a 10mm Colt at -89°C. _No clue. Not an engineer._ I threw one last look around the lab I grew up in and opened the vent to Admin. "Ready when you are, Madam Overseer," I said to Amata's pinched face.

Once we'd passed another gauntlet of rays, filters, and fans, we crawled up to Admin in good time. We stopped at the vent to Amata's room. There was no surveillance here, so it was hard to tell if anyone was out there or not.

Amata hissed back at me, "I'll go out first. I won't look suspicious just stepping out to look around, and they wouldn't dare hurt me. That way, if anyone is out there, I can distract them while you get into the Seal tunnel."

"My hero," I replied, "But by now they're probably searching for you too. They'll be like (I mimicked a burly man's voice), 'Where'd you come from, Ma'am? Could you possibly have been crawling around in the…" she cut me off by sliding carefully out of the vent into her room.

Crouching, she said, "You will definitely be ass raped if they see you. I won't. Besides, I've got sick diplomatic skills and a princess complex, did you forget? Benefits of being the Overseer's daughter. Knew something was worth the curse."

I smiled at her from the vent. "Damn, you're corrupt. My job here is done," _If this works, I'll probably never see you again, Amata._ "Why don't you come with me? Aren't you curious about Megaton? Don't you want to see James again?" I asked, feeling evil.

She looked at me evenly, ignoring my snipe, "I'm not as brave as you. I stick to what I know. When I'm Overseer, I'll open the Vault for expeditions and trading, but I'll never leave. _You_ don't have a choice. You need to go find your dad. And give him a kick in the balls," she said with a nasty grin.

I wondered if she said that for my sake or hers. I drawled, "Yes'm boss lady. You'll make a fine Overseer. Just keep your elbows sharp and don't let 'em bog you down in that thar burrowcratic bullshit."

"If the coast is clear, I'll signal you. If not, you'll probably hear it," she whispered and rose to open her bedroom door.

I wasn't optimistic. They'd be idiots not to have a guard at the Seal tunnel. I called up Andy. "Andy, I'm in the middle of a 10-74 at the Seal tunnel, requesting immediate backup. What's your ETA?"

A proper British gent replied through my Pip-Boy earbud, "Certainly Madam. I shall be at your side in approximately three minutes. Might I suggest that you authorize the use of deadly force to expedite my arrival?"

"Negative, Andy. Tranq shots only. We don't want to start a war, do we?" I replied, amused by his enthusiasm.

"It appears you do not, and my humble opinion matters little," he said haughtily. "Very good, Madam," I could hear shouting and gun fire on his end, "I shall be with you posthaste."

 _Good luck, Andy. If you don't make it, at least you'll have created an excellent diversion_ , I thought.

Amata was out in the hall now with her hands raised. Someone was talking to her, "Return to your quarters immediately, Miss Overseer! It isn't safe for you out here!"

"Stow that firearm, Officer Gomez! And escort me to my father, I just found out where Jane is hiding. Come on, timing is critical—we've got to nip this insurgency in the bud," she said, a bit too imperiously.

"You know where Jane is, Ma'am? And you're going to turn her over just like that? Your best friend? You've certainly learned a lot from your father," said a wounded baritone.

 _Maybe Security_ is _that stupid, putting Gomez on Seal watch._ I crawled out of the vent, relieved at my luck. _Mack probably doesn't trust him not to avoid murdering insurgents._

I walked out and said, "Yo Gomez, gimme a pass this once. I'll owe you one man," doing my best Butch impression.

Amata was glaring at me. "Annoying dweeb, this is serious," she said.

George Gomez sighed and gave me a bear hug. "I'm glad you're okay, but you've got to leave now, girl. We're under orders to apprehend you by any means. As soon as you start hacking the panel, the alarm will go off, so do it quick, then keep running and don't look back." He pounded me on the back, making me gasp for air.

"Thanks for the heads up," I wheezed. "You need to go too. Amata will take the heat for this. She's your alibi. Don't let her convince you she's a fascist. Take it from her sensei, she's good people." Amata scoffed, but didn't complain. "Oh, and watch out for Andy—he's incoming with tranqs, but he'll ignore you as long as you don't confront him."

He looked at me disapprovingly, but he tousled my hair and said goodbye. Amata shook my hand awkwardly, "Good luck. You'll need it." And they left, waving silently from the lift before it closed.

 _Goodbye Amata, goodbye George, goodbye Vault 101. Hello brave new world._

I waited a minute and then took ten seconds to hack the door. The alarm was unavoidable and nerve-wracking, but the panel slid open and I bolted impatiently into the strobing red vagina beyond, ready to be born to the world.

The tunnel opened up into the Seal chamber where a blinking console on a catwalk awaited my commands. My heart sank—it was nothing but a toggle switch covered by a locked encasing. My heart soared—a locked encasing with a key sitting in the keyhole. _Too easy_ , I thought, opening the casement and pulling the switch. An enormous sprocket screeched with a deafening wail as it was drilled from the Seal. I vaulted over the catwalk rail and approached the grinding machinery cautiously. I heard a pop and something hit my thigh. It hurt like a motherfucker.

I turned to see Skylar Mack pointing his 10mm Colt at me and yelling something. Herman Vogel emerged from the tunnel looking insane. _Those two? Was this a trap?_ The sprocket began rolling slowly and laboriously aside. _Hurry up, stupid door!_ Mack shot me again in the chest. It hurt like a bitch but I stood my ground. _What is he shooting, rubber pellets, non-lethal riot control rounds?_ Another shot hit my head and pain exploded in my skull. _Motherfuck!_ I was temporarily blinded by the pain, but when I opened my eyes, I saw Andy. The cavalry had finally fucking arrived!

Never mind, the cavalry was fuck-all useless. Andy sped past the two men and approached me, waving his metal appendages and yelling, "Thank goodness you are unharmed Madam. I have depleted my vecuronium darts, but I shall serve as your shield. I trust you can find your ow wwwwwwww..." His voice turned robotic and his eye lens glowed red. "Error! Combat inhibitor malfunction. Error!"

 _Oh shit, Mack must have hit his combat inhibitor!_ _Not good!_ I pushed myself from the ground and stumbled backwards over the Vault Seal threshold. Andy ignored me and spun to face Mack, bathing him in a brilliant gout of flaming napalm. Mack screamed and crumbled over, beating his flaming limbs against the metal floor. I thought I was going to be sick then, but I ran easily—towards the light. I was free. I was out. I had escaped! I wondered if Vogel was barbeque.

 _Damn Andy, you're a vicious fucking killer, but I love you!_

The sun was brilliant and my retinae recoiled painfully. I kept running until I tripped over a stupid shopping cart and tumbled down a hard incline. I laid there panting for a moment, letting my rhodopsin bleach. My hand came away from my eyes bloody, but there was no pain. I probed my head for the wound. There wasn't one. Two bloody holes pierced my Vault suit. _What the?_ I unzipped my suit and cautiously peeled up my tank top. My skin was unbroken, but the smell of blood was unmistakable. _Blood pellets maybe? Who the fuck uses blood pellets?_ _It doesn't explain the holes in my suit either._ I felt fine, exhilarated even.

A big, ugly black bird crowed from atop a bleached sign that read, "Welcome to Springvale." I was sitting in the middle of a mountain road overlooking a town ruin. _What a dump._ But the sky was vast! And... greenish? I checked the Geiger counter on my Pip-Boy. 0804 hours. Negligible radioactivity. Just as Agnes Taylor had reported to old lady Palmer.

Agnes had been the chief reporting officer of an expeditionary team to Megaton sanctioned by old lady P—back when she was Overseer. Just before Traveon took over, Agnes died suspiciously and all talk of the expedition was silenced. The other two members of the team disappeared. That report was a lucky find. It was how I knew about Megaton. But it was seventeen years old. Same age as me.

I took the aluminum package from Jonas's satchel and unwrapped my frosty 10mm Colt Delta Elite. A note from Dad was plastered against the pistol. I looked at it, dumbfounded. It read:

My dearest Jane,

I don't really know how to tell you this. I hope you'll understand, but I know you might be angry. I thought about it for a long time, but in the end I decided it was best for you not to know. So many things could have gone wrong, and there's really no telling how the Overseer will react when he finds out. It's best if he can blame everything on me. Obviously, you already know that I'm gone. It was something I needed to do. You're an adult now. You're ready to be on your own. Maybe some day, things will change and we can see each other again. I can't tell you why I left or where I'm going. I don't want you to follow me. God knows life in the Vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe. Just knowing that will be enough to keep me going.

Goodbye. I love you.

Dad

 _What the fuck is this shit?_ _"_ You're damn straight I'm angry!" I paced the road formulating my reply. "Nothing you hid from me kept a _goddamn thing_ from going wrong. How could the Overseer react? No clue? _Really_? Then why'd you leave this note to me on a _stolen weapon hidden in the freezer_? Lying piece of… As if I couldn't keep a secret! You knew what I was up to all along and you left me for dead."

I couldn't stem the diatribe. "All you had to write was two words, Dad! Two words would have made your point just fine!" I shouted them at the obtuse letter, "FUCK YOU! Your words are absolute shit. If you don't want to tell someone anything, DON'T LEAVE A FUCKING NOTE! A _limerick_ would have had more sentimental value as a farewell letter! This garbage only makes me want to hunt you down and shove it down your throat!"

I crumpled up the letter and heaved it violently over the hillside, but it was blown back by the wind. _Nature concurs._ My adrenaline rush was wearing off, and my legs began to shake. I retrieved the letter and straightened it, bloodying it in the process. _Fucking useless._ My tears messed it up even worse. _I deserve a better note._

I looked out at the wasted planet and the universe above me. "I _will_ find you James Cadeuseus." I calmly assured them. The bird screeched and flew away.


	7. Chapter 7: Fifty Shades of Burke

**Chapter 7: Fifty Shades of Burke**

With the blood cleaned from my head and hands as well as possible using a roll of gauze and some alcohol, I shouldered Jonas's satchel, chambered my 10mm, and headed down the mountain into Springvale. The town was all rubble overgrown with vines, weeds, and strangled trees. There was nothing loot-worthy to be found because almost everything had crumbled, rusted, and rotted away. The only structures still standing were concrete and rusted iron skeletons of buildings all blanketed in the ubiquitous kudzu vine.

I walked for hours through the deserted, wasted landscape looking for some indication of Megaton, growing more parched and hungry with each step. Agnes had made it sound like Megaton was right outside the Vault Seal. Her report was disappointingly undetailed. My Pip-Boy was useless. I had a satellite map displaying my location, but it showed nothing recognizable. I began to doubt that even the Potomac River still existed. The sky darkened with grey clouds.

It occurred to me that I should climb back up the mountain above the Vault and look for Megaton from there, but just then it started to rain, which was cool. We'd all learned about the hydrologic cycle in the Vault, but it was another matter to experience it—miraculous water falling from the sky just when I needed it most! It didn't matter that it was slightly radioactive. Secure in the suspicion that I was the only living person in the world, I took off my clothes and draped them over a side-turned car to rinse in the downpour. I cavorted naked in the rain, drinking from my hands, daring anyone to judge me. _Ah, glorious nature!_

After the rain tapered off, I continued my exploration of the ruins. The only signs of life I saw were crows. They followed me as I walked, probably hoping I'd drop dead and give them a free meal. _Two can play that game, birdy_. The possibility that I'd have to eat them seemed certain and revolting—they looked diseased. It occurred to me how fucking pathetic I was when I realized that I didn't even have the caveman skill of making fire. _Amata was the smart one after all_.

I was about to head back to the mountain (or if that plan failed, the Potomac), when I heard music. John Philip Sousa, of all things. _What the fuck?_ I ran toward the sound and discovered a small spherical robot floating along jauntily ten feet in the air playing the anachronistic flute notes of Stars and Stripes Forever.

"Hey robot!" I yelled, glad I wasn't the only person in this desolate place. It turned and faced me, but it didn't stop the music. "Hey, what's your name buddy?" I called over the noise. It just hovered there, lensing me. "Can't speak, can you, poor thing," I commiserated loudly. "Well, do you have any friends, little guy? Are there any other people around here?"

Then the music ended and the robot startled me by saying in a fatherly, yet sinister voice, "Greetings, dearest America. This is your President, John Henry Eden. Let's chat, shall we?"

It was only a recording. The orator went on and on, bemoaning the state of America, smearing the people responsible, and promoting himself as President of the United States and savior of the world. No clue as to how old it might be, didn't care really. Nothing it said was remotely useful—there were no United States to rebuild or preside over as far as I could see—but I really wanted the robot. I tried to coax it closer, but it maintained its distance, striking up a ridiculous fluty tune.

 _Have it your way, stupid piece of crap._ I'd read something about eyebots in the archive. They were deployed in mass as mobile surveillance devices to monitor the citizenry before the bombs fell. I couldn't expect any favors from it. "Fuck you, John Henry Eden," I told him, flinging a rock at him and missing. The unmistakable sound of an AK-47 rattled in the distance. _Megaton?_ I headed in its direction to check it out. John Henry followed me. _Good. Maybe I can trap him._

The only standing building in all of Springvale was the high school. _Not Megaton._ The doors were still hanging, even the lettering across the bunker-like façade was intact. I didn't see anyone around, so I crept up to the entrance and tested the front door. It worked perfectly, but the smell released from the dank interior made me gag. 1257 hours. I took out my 10mm, gripped it tightly, and flung the door open. What I saw should have turned me right back around and had me running for the hills at full speed. But did I? No, of course not—I'm an idiot. Not even John Henry's stringent programming could coerce him to follow me into that hellish abattoir.

Rotting corpses were suspended and posed in various positions by means of hanging meat hooks. Putrescent fluids dripped from the bodies. Blood and gore was everywhere—even across the vaulted ceiling. It could only be some deeply disturbed fucker's idea of sculpture. _Unless it is meant to repel intruders, of course_ , I thought objectively, trying to find an explanation that made sense. No, there was no denying it—anyone who treats the dead so callously had to be evil. _I really hope you're not somewhere in this high school Dad._

I just _had_ to check, didn't I? Stupid.

Bloody footprints trailed off down trash-strewn hallways to both sides of the grisly foyer. Light was spilling from a classroom doorway to the left, so I cautiously snuck towards it, heart pounding. A desk and some filing cabinets were positioned so that I couldn't peek into the room without passing the doorway first, but I could see fresh footprints leading inside. Someone was moving in there. _Oh shit! I'm not ready for this!_

I stepped out around the desk and pointed my pistol at a kid lounging on a sofa. He was probably only fourteen years old. He looked up from his book and said, "Hello," barely startled.

I breathed out, "Uh, hi." I checked my three and nine before entering the classroom, 10mm lowered. I gulped putrid saliva, breathing shallowly. "What's up?" I asked, unable to slow my racing heartbeat. _Calm down, it's only a kid,_ I chided myself.

He sat up and raised his hands, looking at me with an intense, predatory gaze unnatural on a child's face. "Nothing so far," he said. I didn't like his smile. He wasn't scared nearly as shitless as I was. He wasn't scared at all. _Cheeky punk._ He started to stand.

"Wo wo wo! Sit back down," I said, shifting my feet and raising my pistol. "We're going to have a little talk first." My voice was shaking. He sat down slowly, hands still raised, riveting my attention with his creepy hypnotic gaze. "To start with, I want to know where your decorator is—at the entrance. Where's who did that?"

A voice from behind me to the other side of the room said, "That's all me!" Pain and heat ripped through my head as I turned to shoot. I dropped my gun and fell to my knees, clutching what was left of my face. Blood poured down my arms like a running faucet. I choked on my teeth. Air was torn from my lungs and expelled violently through broken jaws as a hard boot met my stomach. Heavy blows continued to land on my head and sides. Did I pass out mercifully? No. I heard laughter and panting. "Why… won't… you… die!" he shouted in sync with his blows.

I wanted to play dead, but I couldn't stop gasping for air. I was prostrate then fetal then spread eagled then convulsing as the beating continued. There was no escape, it wouldn't end. _Daddy please, help me! Daddy! I love you!_ My thoughts shifted surreally to the pain description generator from this morning. It was all dilettante drivel. There weren't words for this. I saw only red, I heard only the percussion of my bones cracking, felt only pure Hell.

"Are you seeing this shit!" someone exclaimed.

"It's still fucking moving!" a shrill voice laughed.

"Try chopping its head off," someone suggested in a nasally voice.

The assault had mercifully paused. The pain had not. I groaned and shrieked frothily, distinctly feeling my broken bones knitting themselves into place, tendons reattaching. My muscles were definitely stitching back together, my organs were healing and pulling themselves together, and my wounds were closing. It hurt just as bad as when they were being torn apart. This was all a vivid febrile nightmare. Something was wrong with me and I was stuck in a terrible, psychotic dream. The pain vanished. _I'm finally dead._

"You guys ready for this?" I heard the man say.

"Do it. Do it," people chanted and thumped.

 _What now?_ I tried to get up, but a boot pressed my shoulder back to the floor. There was a shout, "Banzai!" Followed by a shocking whack.

Being decapitated was actually not that painful in comparison to being bludgeoned, although it took several chops. The disorientation of my head being tossed about the room from person to person was less pleasant. Especially when someone tried to put their dick in my mouth. I bit down hard and was thrown against the concrete wall with a wet smack.

"Motherfuck! It bit me!"

I would never have guessed I was capable of imagining such a twisted dream. I pushed myself from the floor and groped clumsily for my head. _To the left. No, sorry—my right. Found me! This is going to hurt!_

My head firmly reattached, I hunched over and turned to look upon my compatriots in Hell. There were at least ten filthy, weather-beaten, gutter punks staring at me in awe. Most of them were teenagers. One of them was wearing a clean, pin-striped suit with a fedora. The older, blood-spattered guy holding an axe was the one I was looking for. _Get ready to die, bastard._ I screamed and launched myself at him.

"Stop. Do not harm anyone here," said the man in the fedora.

I stopped immediately, inches away from Axe Man. I was prepared to gouge out his eyes and rip out his throat with my teeth—I was so close. But suddenly all that was behind me. All I wanted was to stop. And to not harm anyone in this school. _Exactly like he said_ , I looked at the man with the fedora. "Who the hell are you?"

He responded in an unctuous, reverberating basso, tipping his hat, "I am Ingrid Burke. And I am _very_ pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Wait, isn't Ingrid a girl's name?" I asked impertinently, wiping blood from my ears and eyes.

This aroused some scattered snorts and giggles, but Burke merely smirked. "Well, Miss… forgive me, what is your name?" he asked politely.

"I'm Helen Burns," I lied.

"Well, Miss Helen Burns," he quipped, loosening his tie, "I intend to show you that Ingrid is very much a man's name. Come with me, you need a bath."

I was getting a nasty vibe off this sinister popinjay, but I really wanted to follow him so I could get cleaned up. He led me and his rowdy gang of punks down the hall, around a corner, up two staircases, and out onto the roof to a big rusty cistern. "Remove your clothing and wash thoroughly," he said.

It was completely natural—to bathe one must first strip. I removed my boots and all my clothes in front of the feral pack of delinquents watching me. Then I opened the faucet and scrubbed myself under the torrent until the water stopped turning red. Not a single scratch. No soreness or pain. Burke was talking to Axe Man, who was licking my blood from his hands. I should have run and jumped off the building right then.

Hundreds of crows had flocked to the roof and were eyeing the scene dispassionately. Burke beckoned me, "Come along, Miss Burns. Leave those," he said, referring to the battered Vault suit and underwear I had been rinsing.

I approached him, aware that my behavior was counterintuitive, but unable to resist the impulse. "Where are we going? What do you want from me?" I asked with rising dread.

He smiled, "Do you really need to ask?" And we went back into the school.

"Yes, I do need to ask!" I replied, resorting to pleading in hushed tones as we walked down the second floor hall. "You're a reasonable man, Mister Burke. I can tell you're intelligent and well mannered. You're clean and you dress and speak honorably. What are you doing with these delinquents? Let's get out of here now! We can go to Megaton and I swear I'll do whatever you want. I'll go there naked—I don't care—just, please, let's go already." I had no fucking clue.

He ushered me into a lit room containing a small kitchen and closed the door on the faces of his gutter punk friends. He exhaled as if to remove their rank stench from his mouth and turned to me with a wolfish grin, removing his fedora with a shallow bow. "Alone at last. Please," he gestured to a sofa, tossing the fedora onto its grimy brocade, "make yourself comfortable if you like."

I didn't like. He tisked and said, "Tell me what you are doing here," tilting his head and removing his tie.

"I'm looking for my dad, James Cadeuseus. He's six foot two, medium length black hair, good-looking, probably wearing a Vault suit—possibly a lab coat. He just escaped from Vault 101, so I thought he might be here," I explained, glad that he asked. I'd covered my chest and pubes with my arms, feeling very uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He placed a silenced Walther on a coffee table next to a box of .32 hydra-shok ammo. It was a nice weapon. I felt wistful looking at it.

"What a coincidence," he said, taking off his suit coat. "I am also searching for your father. Now that I get a good look at you, the resemblance is striking. Don't hide your body from me, Miss Burns. Or is it Miss Cadeuseus? May I call you Helen?" he asked, folding his coat and draping it over a metal sink with his tie.

"Yeah, sure. Helen—that's what all my friends call me," I replied. "We are friends, right, Ingrid?" I tried to cover the lie with small talk.

He slipped his shoulder holster off and said, "You don't say. I've always preferred Helena. May I call you Helena? If you want to be friends, you shouldn't lie. Your name is Helena." He unbuckled his belt.

I swallowed convulsively. _My name is Helena—all this time I thought it was Jane! What a mindfuck! How did he know?_

"Wait, what are you doing?" I asked, knowing full well what he was doing. A conspicuous bulge was tenting his pressed dress pants. My alarms elevated to DEFCON 1. "Hey, stop that. Let's just talk, okay!" I begged in an unfamiliar octave. I glanced at the door, wondering if the gang was all still out there.

He was removing his shoes. It was the perfect opportunity to make a run for it. As I bolted, he called, "Don't run from me." I wouldn't run if I had to. _Why am I acting so stupidly?_

I turned around, feeling foolish, and watched him fold his socks and tuck them into his shoes. "So you're looking for my dad? We can look for him together. Four eyes are better than two, right?" I suggested, trying to delay him.

He looked up and smirked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Four-eyes? Really."

I laughed nervously, "Sorry! Bad pun. Hey, don't put words into my mouth."

"I haven't. I prefer to hear your own thoughts." He looked at me curiously. "You're very skittish. It's incredibly arousing. Why haven't you pushed me?"

 _Push him? What the hell?_ "What do you mean? You _want_ me to push you?" I asked incredulously.

"By all means," he spread his arms beside him and braced for impact. "Push me," he said, looking thrilled.

I stepped forward and shoved him against the back of the sofa he was sitting on. "That good?" I asked, hoping this wasn't turning him on in some weird way.

He looked at me coldly. "Very cute. Tell me what your abilities are."

I thought quickly, grasping the opportunity to further divert his lewd intentions, "Oh I'm highly skilled. I've been trained in medicine and biochemistry, I write software, I can hack almost any code, and, uh, I guess I've trained myself pretty good in the use of fire arms. I'm in excellent health, and I'm really smart. I'd be a darn good friend to have in a pinch." _Shit, I sound like a dork!_

His brow raised. "That is highly irregular. Tell me who your mother is."

"Her name was Catherine and she was a Vault botanist. I've never met her—she died when I was born," I offered obsequiously. "What's so irregular? My skills? I'm not exaggerating, I'm just that good."

He ignored me. "Tch. I mean that your father is a psycher but you are an Immortal," he said, narrowing his eyes and unbuttoning his collar.

 _What?_ "Wo, hold the elevator. My dad is a _doctor_. And you've never met him. It's impossible because we've lived in the Vault all our lives. You're thinking about someone else. This is obviously a simple misunderstanding. I'm not an immortal. Please stop, just keep your clothes on and talk to me seriously."

He scoffed and unzipped his trousers, rubbing his erection as he pulled out his shirt tails. His respiration increased to that of a pervert on a phone. "You deny that you're an Immortal after being decapitated?" He started unbuttoning his shirt, looking at me like a wolf looking at a fallen antelope. "James really tangled you in his web, didn't he? Poor, ignorant girl. I've known your father for two-hundred years. We used to be close friends until he slaved me out to the elves. I eagerly anticipate the meeting that will end our twenty-five years estrangement." He smiled malevolently and came out of his shirt.

I abandoned all pretense of reasoning with him. "Oh, I get it," I said with a dramatic facepalm. "You're bat-shit. You're just a sadistic bastard fucking with me to get your nut. No, you aren't even real. You're the archetypical douchebag of a demented nightmare. I can't believe I've been trying so hard to be nice. This is nothing but a sick dream. Wake up Helena!" I pulled my hair and laughed. "What the hell, I've just had my head stomped in and chopped off. How bad can rape be?" I've read that the best way to discourage a rapist is by vomiting on them. I couldn't puke so I did the next best thing: I yelled, "You make me wanna puke. You're nothing but a diseased animal. Just like your rabid friends. I see why you prefer them to Megaton. Stay away from me you twisted, evil fuck!"

He draped his pants over the sink. "Such foul manners. You're nothing like James," he reproached me dourly, removing his underwear and exposing his turgid, purple penis. "We could have been intimate friends. I could compel you to make love to me—and you would relish it. We could have found your father together as companions. I had no intention of raping you. But now, now I have to teach you a firm lesson." He masturbated himself perversely. "I'm going to humiliate you. And if that doesn't improve your manners, I'll throw you to the wolves." He chuckled maliciously, "They are going to eat you alive. Now, come here."

It was different from before. I didn't want to obey him at all, but I couldn't stop my body from moving on its own accord. I knew then that he was definitely controlling me.

"No! Stop this! _How_ are you doing this? _Why_ are you doing this?" I cried in horrified revulsion. _This is worse than rape_ , I thought. It wasn't, but I was only now grasping that. I had slipped into a yawning declivity the moment I left the Vault, and I couldn't retreat from the abyss closing swiftly upon me. I had yet to grasp how infinite the depths of that abyss would be when it swallowed me.

He took my head at and looked me in the eye, "You have no idea, do you? James is inscrutable. Whatever happens, never speak of this to anyone." His pupils dilated and I felt the compulsion bind me. For a second the hunger in his eyes turned to pain and he drew my head to his shoulder and whispered, "I'm sorry." Then he took off his glasses.

 _Bullshit!_ I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, adeptly spinning me around. Then he hoisted me screaming and flailing onto a sofa where he pinned me down and positioned his dick against my vagina. My pride was destroyed by the first violent thrust, a merciless invasion of my body at its weakest, most guarded gate. Then another. And another. He laughed delightedly. The more I struggled and cursed him, the crueler his abuse of me became, until I had nothing left. All I could do was sob helplessly in abject humiliation, utterly defeated. He crushed me in a stranglehold when he ejaculated into me. But his orgasm didn't prevent his fucking from building again into an animal frenzy. He wrenched my hair and bit into my neck like some wild beast, forcing my head down into a position of primal submission and growling like a madman. Then he continued his rape with invigorated depravity, brutally clawing my body and battering my insides with his incessant pounding.

After a while of this, he flipped me over and resumed his assault face to face. His thrusting was more controlled. I turned my head, despising the sadistic pleasure written on his disgusting face, hoping he wouldn't touch me with his putrid lips. He pressed his sweaty forehead against my temple and said, "Do not despise me, my love. Innocence is fleeting in this world. You are like a beautiful, mythical creature that cannot exist amongst men. I never dreamed… I'd meet a virgin Immortal… much less deflower one. It is an honor… and… a pleasure."

As if I should congratulate him on his brutal conquest.

"Now! Helena, come!" he cried, and my body responded treacherously. _Impossible!_ Energy coursed through me in overwhelming waves of sensual ecstasy, and I was swept away, impotent against the ravishing flood. The planet flipped on its axis and all that was evil became good. Talk about misattribution of arousal. I abandoned the hatred I'd been nurturing so intently moments before and wailed continuously with joyous rapture, glorying in the supreme gratification of his convulsing cock and the warmth of his semen. For what seemed like a quarter of an hour, we soared through an infinite Hell of carnal bliss together and I gushed profusely the whole way through. Then he collapsed on top of me, sweating and breathing hard. Neither of us could move for several minutes.

"I can't believe James never took advantage of you," his breath was hot in my ear. "It must have been torture for him, being stuck in that Vault with you, always denying himself the succor of the ripening forbidden fruit. I imagine that's why he left. He couldn't endure it any longer. I can't wait to describe to him what a delicious, _juicy_ , little whore you are."

I had almost forgiven him in the throes of orgasm. That brought me back to reality. "Get off me," I said, pulling myself together.

He frowned and sat up, "After that, you're still piqued?" He acted wounded.

I spit in his face in reply, it was all I could do. He had raped my id. Piqued was such a vapid word. The look on his face was almost worth the punishment I knew was coming. He wiped the spittle with his fingers and sucked it. "For that, you will never give up your magicka to anyone else." He got up, opened the door, and said, "Now get out."

I tried to get out, but a clusterfuck of psychotic teenagers was blocking my way. Burke told them, "Indulge yourselves, malodorous friends, she's all yours. Be sure to kill her when you're through." He looked at me and said, as if in afterthought, "Helena… don't die." Then he slammed the door, forcing me into the hall.

"This is gonna be fun," Axe Man leered. He hoisted me roughly and with raucous fanfare I was taken into the bowels of the school. Into the inner sanctum of Hell. I couldn't defend myself. I couldn't conceive of harming any of them to save myself. I couldn't even die to save myself.

I was repeatedly and savagely gang raped, sodomized, flayed, dismembered, skullfucked, cannibalized, stabbed, impaled, bludgeoned, torn apart, blown up, crucified, burned, decapitated, crushed, poisoned, dissected, bisected, drowned in filth, and subjected to numerous appalling indignities. They didn't stop for sleep. Sometimes I blacked out, but always I woke up alive and screaming in Hell. The things they did to me over the next three days scarred me in ways unseen. What Burke had done to my mind they accomplished upon my body a hundred fold. I accepted this hideous new reality and left my humanity with my flesh in the bloody soup of my prison floor.

The death frenzy took its toll on them as well. Two died in their wild efforts to kill me. One had his head split by an errant swing of the axe and another blew himself up with me in a badly timed explosion. They were the lucky ones. There were other injuries, but everyone had discovered the miracle healing powers of my flesh and blood. All the excitement over my freakish invincibility waned after the first day, and they devoted themselves to the task of killing me with calm, methodical interest. I didn't see Burke again.

It was the hunger that set me free—a profound, insatiable chasm rifting my body and soul, gnawing my mind, and demanding satiation. Once I lost control of that, it ended quickly. I filled it gluttonously with the souls of my tormentors, ripped from their quailing hearts by the pull of the void inside me. They couldn't defend themselves against it, nor could they abandon the raison d'etre instilled by Burke. I knew each of them intimately as the void rendered them. Like death, it is hard to describe without demonstration. We were each of us locked in a terrible, dark destiny, and nothing could satisfy us but the other's enduring doom. I had entered a dark dimension - a plane higher than orgasm - and I climaxed in it alone.

On that third day, I emerged from my pit and climbed to the rooftop unscathed except for my mind, which was shattered, hairless and covered in blood and filth like a new born baby. My clothes were still there, and I drained the cistern quenching my thirst and washing myself. A crow flew from its perch to examine me and peck at the gore I had rinsed away. I snatched it hungrily and ate everything but its beak. Then I put on my clothes and read Dad's letter again—wet, but still legible. It seemed meaningless apart from the final line.

 _Do you know what I am, Dad?_ _Is this how Mom died? Is this why you left?_

I went back inside and explored the desolate school. During the death frenzy, one of the kids had taken my head somewhere and I lost it. I was curious to see if it was still around. I found it impaled on a broken flag pole. _What purpose did this brain serve_ , I wondered. _None._ _You were fucked the moment you walked in here._ I tossed it into a toilet bowl. _Where is the seat of reason? Am I still the same person I was before I grew my current head?_ They had no opinion. What _is a soul? Where is my soul?_ I found some organs and meat harvested from me in a classroom. _You're right. They're pretty good._ It seemed that the law of conservation of mass didn't extend to me. Nor the law of conservation of energy, for that matter. _Do I even need to eat?_ I didn't want to hear it. I rocked and screamed a violin concerto till they quieted. The hunger taught me hunger. Shut up or die. _Why am I hungry? What is my hunger?_ I had to explore this Hell further if I wanted to find the answers to my questions.

While poking about, I found my Pip-Boy and my Colt on Axe Man's body. He had fashioned a leather holster for it from my skin. I took that too. There were a couple of good knives and a bunch of tools I couldn't carry. I also found the AK-47, badly rusted and with only a few rounds left in the clip. Jonas's satchel was empty except for a box of 10mm. I hated that I knew their names. Some of them were still talking to me. I could silence them anytime I wished, but I didn't. No point. _I wonder where Ingrid is,_ they asked. I wondered too. _Best to steer clear of that psycho,_ someone said. I thought fondly of Andy. _You have no room to speak._ I devoured him.

1330 hours. John Henry was gone. I left the school and made my way north. A little ways from the school there was a rusted metal sign painted with the word 'Megaton' and an arrow pointing down a beaten path. I felt such a virulent contempt for that shoddy sign that I nearly turned and walked in the direction opposite the arrow. Instead, I gritted my teeth and trudged onward, as, I was told, any wastelander would.


	8. Chapter 8: Megaton

**Chapter 8: Megaton**

It was a fine day in Megaton. The sun was shining, the crows were singing, the smithy was clanging, children were fishing pockets, and the market was in full swing. Food, crafts, livestock, chemicals, textiles, munitions, services, and scrap were all being bartered in a loud hubbub of haggling and extortion down on the crater common. Scavengers, farmers, and artisans from all around came to Megaton on market day. Tonight all this commerce would come flowing into Moriarty's Saloon in its purest currencies: silver, ammo, and drugs.

Colin Moriarty surveyed the scene from his perch at the rim of the crater. He was master of it all. He knew everyone and all their proclivities. He was a sharp statesman with the uncanny knack of finding and exploiting human weakness. He was a bartender. Well, that and an empath, but his primary weapons were whores, hootch and good ol' rumor. _Let Sims call himself the mayor,_ he thought. _Everybody knows that Moriarty runs this circus._

Megaton was a tiered shanty town built into the cliffs of a crater. Population 360, give or take, eight of whom were espers. Lucas Sims was one—a fourth gen hercule with monstrous strength. Moriarty watched him in his binoculars as Sims interrupted Beebe China's row with a scrap vendor with an effortless face slam to the ground. It didn't look like Beebe would be getting up anytime soon, if ever, so he was carried to the clinic on the backs of two coolies.

"What brings you to my rim of the pit, laddy? Pleasure or profit?" Colin asked as Theo Stahl crested the sheet metal walkway to Moriarty's balcony. He could only conjecture Theo's intentions because Theo was a Void. Whenever he walked amongst espers, a pall descended as their abilities were sucked away. This was a handy talent to have in a place like Megaton. Especially the day before when Ingolf Burke, of all people, had waltzed into his pub taking the piss and acting all high and mighty. He introduced himself smarmily to Nova, calling himself Ingrid. _What a hoot! Pushers are all fucking mental wankers._ Once he'd sensed Theo, Burke left in a pissy huff.

Voids weren't all that dangerous if you fed them properly. Theo was all right. All it took to put him on a leash was sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Moriarty had those in spades.

"What's it worth to you to know?" Theo replied, unable to stifle a malicious grin. His left iris was white, his teeth were steel, and he was covered with piercings and tattoos, making him look almost as freakish as Gob.

"Ah, I was only bein' polite, me boy," Colin said mirthfully, "You know you won't be keepin' yer gob shut once you start jonesin' again. Come inside and have a tipple to settle those shakes of yours."

"Not today. Your swill is worse than brahmin piss, Irish. Talk smack with me," Theo said.

"Well hello, stranger," said Colin, ignoring him. He was engrossed with something in his binocular view. "Who might you be?" A bald, gangling figure in a Vault suit had appeared from the gate on the opposite side of the crater. It was staggering down the path from the fuselage with an automatic rifle and an oversized book bag, ogling the buttressed wall, the stacked shanties, and the market rabble like a wasteland yokel.

Theo pulled a spyglass from the folds of his leathers and looked. "Don't know who she is, but I know where she's been. It's an interesting story—I can hardly believe it myself," he said, baiting Moriarty.

Moriarty laughed at him. "A good businessman waits to buy until prices are at their lowest. I'm curious to know how you can tell that thing is female though. Have you talked to her?"

"I'm going to the lab. Let me know how she feels when you meet her, and I'll give you a hint why," Theo incentivized. "Catch you later." He walked up to the crater rim and disappeared behind a steel trailer.

 _Greedy junkie bastard,_ thought Moriarity. He watched the stranger walk around the market, silently observing the clamor and examining wares as if trying to comprehend them. Her skin was chalk white. _Obviously a Vault dweller._ It was the second Vault dweller he'd seen in three days. _Have they opened the Vault?_ No. The last time he'd seen dwellers, seventeen years ago, they'd all come in a group wearing radiation suits and announcing themselves like royalty. "We are ambassadors of the Overseer of Vault 101," they'd said, "We are here simply to observe your primitive culture and savage customs."

Then, three nights ago, James Michaelis walked in and chatted up Theo like they were old pals sharing a drink in their favorite pub. He had a whiskey and asked where he could find more info about the southern Capitol Wasteland. Then he fucked Nova without paying and split with the caravan. Whatever happened to that brat he'd been lugging around? _That couldn't be James's baby girl, could it?_

She'd stopped in front of the central pond and stared at the nuclear bomb poking from it. She pulled a hologram out of her wrist computer and examined it. Then she gazed around incredulously. Lucas Sims came and stood next to her, staring with her at the bomb and Confessor Cromwell, who was wading in the water urging her to be baptized in Atom's holy glow.

"Welcome to Megaton," he said in his deep, bluesy voice. "I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you from that Vault up on the mountain?" He was a big, bearded, black man in a cowboy hat and a duster.

She looked at him, glanced down at her Vault suit, and said, "Yeah. How'd you know? Say hoss, is that a live nuclear warhead I spy sitting smack dab in the middle of town? Isn't this crater a tad premature?"

"This town was built around that bomb—it's why we call this place Megaton. Nobody knows how the crater got here. It isn't a blast crater—it's too deep and smooth. It's more like a giant spoon came down and scooped out a perfect hemisphere of bedrock. I'm Lucas Sims, by the way—town mayor and Sheriff." He held out a hand.

She looked at his hand suspiciously before cautiously accepting the hand shake, "Helena Cadeuseus—Lone Wanderer. Hey, have you seen anyone else from the Vault lately? I'm looking for my dad, James Cadeuseus. He's six two, black hair, blue eyes, lady killer, maybe wearing a lab coat?

"You must be talking about James Michaelis. Hot damn, I didn't know he had a kid. It had to happen one of these days. You look just like him."

"You've met him? Where is he?" Helena asked excitedly.

"Oh he left three days ago. Don't know where. Try asking up in Moriarty's Saloon—that's where he stayed. It's at the south rim," he pointed it out.

"Thanks, Sheriff," she said and started off.

"Hey," Sims called after her, "Don't go pushing people recklessly, you hear?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," she said. "No problem."

She vaulted up six levels of teetering scrap walks and corrugated tenement roofs to find a white-haired, beady-eyed man in a bartender's vest awaiting her under the awning of the saloon porch. "Welcome to Moriarty's Saloon. Come in and wet yer whistle with the finest ale and hootch in the wastes," Moriarty said with an avaricious gleam in his eyes.

"Are you Moriarty?" she asked breathlessly.

If she wasn't a woman, she was a six-foot twelve-year-old. Her heavy-lidded blue eyes and her straight, narrow nose said she was definitely James's daughter. Moriarty wished Theo hadn't left. Her emotions were primarily a mix of determination and curiosity, but there was a heavy undercurrent of anger, disgust, and trauma, like she was severely disillusioned. _Or raped._ That wasn't likely—she was in perfect condition and she had no fear. She had recently lost faith in something very significant to her. _Daddy?_ _The Vault? Reality? Welcome to the Capitol Wasteland baby girl._

"Maybe so, who wants to know?" he asked tentatively.

"Helena Cadeuseus. I was told you might know where I can find…"

He cut her off. "Wo lassy, I don't know what kind of manners the overseer tolerates, but here we observe the niceties of civil society," he lied blatantly. Come, let's go inside and talk. You look like you could use a drink." He pushed the saloon doors open and ushered her to the bar. Her annoyance suddenly turned into alarm.

"What the fuck happened to you?" she asked, looking at Gob in astonishment.

"What, you never seen a ghoul before," Gob said, affronted, and he spit on the floor. "Nice haircut, suits the albino troglodyte look you're aimin' for. Now what do you want."

Moriarty had walked behind the bar. Upon hearing this, he turned and punched his elbow into Gob's kidney. "What the hell, man! That's no way to treat a patron of me pub. Get off yer arse, apologize to the lady, and fetch us some whiskey."

"Oh shit! You didn't have to hit him! It was my fault for saying that!" Helena held her palms out to Gob as he rose from the floor. She apologized embarrassedly, "I'm sorry guy—I didn't mean any offense. I was just… surprised."

"It's okay," Gob wheezed, rubbing his tenderized kidney, "I get it. You've never seen a ghoul. Sorry for calling you a trog." He limped away to get the whiskey.

"How touchin'," Moriarty crooned, thinking she'd be a gullible, easy mark. "You're the fairest lass I ever set me eyes on and you got a soft spot for zombies. Too bad about the hair though. Why d'ya shave it?"

He had hit a nerve rich in agony. Helena replied impassively, "I didn't. I'm looking for someone. The sheriff said he stayed here three nights ago. His name is James and he's six two, black hair, blue eyes…"

"I know what your da looks like," Moriarty cut her off. "Yes, he was here, but now he's gone. Did he have something to do with your hair? Or was it radiation? You haven't even got eyelashes."

The deadpan look she gave him was echoed by her emotions, which suddenly stilled to the deadly mellow he'd felt in Mia and Stockholm before they sniped someone. He'd gone too far. "Gob, go fetch Theo from the water treatment lab. Tell him his shift starts now."

Gob set two greasy glasses of whiskey on the bar in front of them. "Sure, boss."

"I never said he was my dad," Helena said darkly. "Who's Theo?" She was radiating murder. Sinuous, uncoiling, reptilian scenting prey kind of murder.

"Settle down lass," Moriarty said defensively, "Theo's in the band. He helps out on market day." _Whew, she's come back from the brink._ _She is_ nothing _like James._ _All murder and mayhem, this one. Not the average pusher. Would I even know if she pushed me? I could never tell with James..._ So his thoughts reeled.

He explained frantically, "You didn't ha' to say so cause you look just like him. I remember you when you were just a wee babe in his arms. Your da an' his Brotherhood of Steel friend, Star. Yous all stayed here in that room o'er there 'fore your da took you to the Vault with Agnes 'n' Lewis 'n' what's-her-name."

Her emotion pitched and dove into a hollow, wounded incredulity as she considered her glass, then she poured the whiskey down her throat. "Give me another," she gasped, choking down the alcohol. She was defeated.

"Sure, lass, comin' right up," Moriarty chimed, glad that her murderous intent had taken a sudden turn. _Did Daddy lie to baby girl?_ Gob had no sooner reached the saloon doors than Theo pushed his way in. Moriarty beckoned him anxiously to the store room.

"What the bleedin' hell are you doin'?" Moriarty hissed at him as he filled glasses from a wooden barrel in the store room. "Why can I feel _your_ emotions? You're a fucking Void! I've _never_ felt _you_ before!" Theo was laden with desire and pain. He was ravenous like a starved coyote, but full of self-loathing and bitterness. He was entrenched in a burning hatred of mankind and yet he was sharp, like a shiv. On top of all this he was thrilled—to the point of ecstasy. It made no sense. "I don't like you at all, to be honest!"

Theo took a deep breath. "She's so… Uh uh, Irish, I'm on duty. Give me the good stuff. And give me the recipe. For the powder—not that tar. Then I talk."

Moriarty whistled to Gob and handed off the whiskey. Then he fumbled his keys from his vest pocket. "Have it yer way, greedy bastard." He threw a white packet from a cabinet to Theo saying, "You're worse off than I thought. Take this as well." He tossed him a bottle of emetic tea leaves, "It'll clean you out right as rain."

Theo didn't argue. He insufflated half the powder inside the packet and slumped to the floor with a beatific smile. Blood poured from his nose. He wiped it with a dirty finger and sucked it clean. "She's the fucking bomb, man," he said, laughing like he'd struck gold. "She's a motherlode of god-caliber magicka. I haven't even begun to plumb the depths of her source, she's so rich. It started this morning, but I've been watching her for longer. You want more, you hand me that paper. And another hit."

Moriarty gaped in horror. He whispered harshly, "Yer tellin' me that that flimsy little girl is stronger than her daddy, James Michaelis? That not e'en you can stem the flow o' her source?"

Theo nodded with a rapacious grin. His pain and hunger were ebbing fast and Colin sensed honesty in his words.

"Thanum an dhul—great god o' the Elder Clan!" he rasped, "We're gelded! There's no tellin' what's real and what's not now! _You've_ never been witness to James's arts, but I tell you when that man walks into the room, you can kiss yer sweet marbles goodbye! And now we've got the monster version of him takin' the sop in me pub?" He ladled whiskey down his mouth and shirt.

Back at the bar, Helena was getting drunk. "Um, Gob?" she said inquisitively, "what's a ghoul?"

"We're people, just like you, who got too irradiated and mutated into this," he waved his hand around his destroyed visage and turned on the radio. An ancient, jazzy song played. "It doesn't happen to everyone," he answered Helena's skeptical look. "Most people nowadays just die of rad poison, but those who don't live a lot longer and are more resistant to… the ravages of the wasteland." He tossed some salted meat onto a large hot plate. "We used to be the majority until all the smoothskins came out of their secret shelters and the scavers moved in."

"How old are you?" Helena asked after a while.

"Don't know—lost track," Gob replied. "I was here before those scaving Brotherhood assholes, so probably sixty. But I know people who were around since before the apocalypse."

"That was more than two-hundred years ago!" Helena exclaimed and sat down with a puzzled expression. "You know people that are two-hundred years old? Where are they?"

Her question was ignored because Nova and Silver had come down the stairs and sat down on the toilet seats that passed as bar stools on either sides of Helena. "What's for breakfast? Smells good, Gob," Silver said, running her hand through her long, disheveled, silver hair.

"It's market day," Gob replied, sampling the frying molerat meat and eyeing her voluptuous breasts while gyrating his hips to the music. "Baths before breakfast."

The girls groaned and got up. "You better not eat it all before we get back," Nova warned before leaving.

The radio cried emphatically, "What's up wastelanders? This is Three Dog (bow wow) and you're listening to GNR. That's _Galaxy News Radio_ , in case you forgot. And here's me, ha ha ha. With the news." But just then, Moriarty came out from whatever he was doing in the back and turned it off in a flurry of angst.

"Insufferable idiot," Moriarty said. "Can't stand to hear his voice. Always goin' on about the good fight, yet he never sets foot from his imperial fortress. Hypocritical bullshite and sanctimonious drivel—he's likely an Enclave fearmonger. That's what I say."

Theo came out from the back and took Helena's empty cups. He was wearing a stupified metal grin.

"Idiot, agent—who cares? Let me hear it. I liked the music," Helena begged Moriarty.

"You're smarter than you are pretty, my dear, but that's how he sucks you in. Just wait 'til the rest of the band gets here. Besides, I thought you wanted to know where your da is," Moriarty reminded her.

"Do you even know?" Helena asked with a disgusted expression.

"Of course I do," Moriarty claimed, looking terrified as he started the juke box, "but information is a precious commodity and you'll have to pay me or push me to get it."

Stultifying country music poured from the speakers as Theo set two glasses full of whiskey in front of her.

"What do you mean, 'push you'?" Helena asked with a defacing facepalm. She rubbed her hand over her aggrieved cranium, gritting her teeth in frustration. "People keep saying that. I don't know what it means." She visibly cringed from the music as the twanging refrain began, and she downed the glasses before her in quick succession to numb the mental assault of the horrific tones of George Jones. Moriarty could feel her futile prayers for swift death.

Theo exited the pub with a grimace.

 _Exactly as planned._ He had rarely felt so dirty before. It was thrilling to watch. _Thank you, George—whoever the hell you were. You're a master of sadism, worse than any wanking pusher could imagine._

"What's that?" Moriarty crooned victoriously, holding a hand to his ear. "I can barely hear you over the music. You don't know how to push people?" _Who's yer daddy, little bitch!_

Helena staggered to the juke box and pounded the acrylic casing, panting heavily. "What the fuck are you trying to do to me?" she cried pathetically. "Do you or don't you know where my dad is?"

He was supposed to run at this stage of the plan, but his curiosity got the better of him and he lowered the volume of the nauseating racket. "This ain't the song I meant to play," he lied, brushing the filth of it from his vest. "Why don't you compel me to turn it off, lass? You know I'm helpless to your charms. Hey, are you okay?" he asked the prostrate figure curling on the floor. He hadn't expected this to work so well.

"I'm fine," she said in a husky rasp. "I just need a minute to reassemble my brain. Please… turn it off."

Gob offered her some coffee in a metal cup. "Country music doesn't affect ghouls and assholes like it does regular people. Drink this. It'll help."

Moriarty slapped his head, "Who're you callin' arsehole?" He turned off the horrific noise for his own peace of mind. "Well lass, it's time you ante up an' throw yer cards down. Don't act the pussy," he said confidently. "If you'd had anything to play, you'd ha' dealt it already. Am I wrong?"

"No," Helena said, standing and gulping down the entire cup of coffee. "You're _dead_ wrong." She dropped the cup on the floor and unloaded her AK on the juke box. The recoil nearly knocked her over. "But now I'm all out of ammo. S'okay," she staggered and belched, "It's still a decent bludgeon." She reversed the AK to grip the barrel two-handed and lunged, throwing herself off balance with a wild swing that breezed over Moriarty's head as he dodged. He stumbled over his own feet and fled the pub.

"What was that?" Silver asked him outside when he collided with her. "Is Theo here already?"

Nova knew better. "It's that kid. What did you do to her Colin?" she asked reproachfully. She was also an empath and she'd never felt Moriarty so agitated. She could feel residual pain and murderous intent emanating from the girl in the bar.

"Time to go," said Moriarty, regaining his balance, and he took off to the rim.

Helena pushed through the saloon doors brusquely but stopped when she saw the two prostitutes. "Hi," she said, blinking in the rays of the declining sun, "I'm Helena." She stowed her AK. "Have either of you seen a Vault guy, six two, black hair, blue eyes, monster in the sack, goes by James?

They sighed and looked at each other knowingly. "Yeah," they chimed and Nova said, "hard to forget a man like that."

"Come on," Silver insisted, "Let's eat."

They returned to the bar where Gob was disgustedly sweeping up casings and juke box bits. Before Helena could question Nova further, he thrust the broom into her hands and said, "You made this mess, you clean it up."

Silver looked at the juke box and pieced together what had happened. "He played George Jones, didn't he? Or was it Hank Williams XVI?" She shrugged and sat down, stretching languorously. "Feed me, Mister Ghoul," she told Gob sultrily.

Helena crooked an eyebrow, but continued her chore obligingly. Gob served molerat steak and coffee to the two whores. "Don't you mean, 'Eat me, Mister Ghoul'?" he rasped with a lecherous glint.

"Hmph. In your dreams." She treated him to an icy glare.

"Ouch! Sorta like the one I had last night?" he asked, handing Helena a dustpan.

Nova turned to Helena and asked, "Are you gonna kill Colin or work for him?" She'd sensed Helena's annoyance burgeon into concupiscent curiosity. _Mercurial, high-strung thing._

"I'm just trying to find my dad—James," Helena replied. "I bet you slept with him, didn't you? Three nights ago? Did he say anything about where he was going or what he was doing?"

"Sorry hun, we didn't have time for pillow talk. That man is intense." She gazed at the ceiling starry-eyed before asking, "You couldn't push Colin for information?"

"No. When I asked, he said information is a commodity, and then he blasted me with that awful noise. I could barely think. I thought I'd suffered the tortures of the damned before, but I was not prepared for that. What the hell was that?"

"Oh that? That started about eight years ago. Nobody can listen to country music without going into apoplexy nowadays," she stated matter-of-factly. "Shame, but what can you do? I'm surprised you're so sensitive to it. Anyway," she stuffed a piece of molerat into her mouth and returned to the subject of James, "Colin is the only one who might know where James went. Maybe Theo, but you'll never get anything outta him. You'll have to make amends if you want him to spill. And he'll make you pay for the juke box before he drops you one stingy hint. You unsettled him good."

"That's just great." Helena said dejectedly. "You think he'd take this rifle in exchange?"

Nova sneered at the rusted AK-47. "That piece of junk? Nuh uh. I'd just go out there and find an easy mark if I were you. Plenty out there today. Maybe you can even barter your talent around town," she suggested.

"That's right!" Helena brightened, "I'm a brilliant fucking physician! People need me! Megaton is in serious demand of my talents! Point me to the infirmary—unless you've got any nasty rashes I can help you with?" She remembered who the whore had serviced and winced, "I hope you don't have any weeping ulcers or warts down there. No foul smelling discharge or burning when you urinate?"

Nova eyed her dubiously, "I'm fine. Doc Church might throw you some patients, if that's really what you want to do. His clinic is at the bottom of the west arc. Look for the big, red cross." She couldn't keep up with Helena's mood swings. _This girl is unhinged._

"Thanks lady. Doc Church, look out! Your career swings from the precipice of my prerogative!" Helena gushed. She had an afterthought, "Who are you anyway?"

"I'm Nova and she's Silver," Nova replied, her pretty face displaying amused bafflement.

"Fare thee well, fair ladies of the night. Tell Moriarty I'll have his juke box repaired on the double; but if he ever plays that song again, I'll shoot him in his shit-eating face," Helena said, bowing and waving before striding from the saloon.

"What a whack job," Silver evaluated.

"You have no idea," Nova concurred.

Doc Church was sitting at his desk dissecting a mutated growth he had excised from Jericho's axillary fossa. It looked like an atrophied crab claw covered in pubic hair. There was a well-developed ventral nerve bundle, which accounted for the blubbering screams interrupting his concentration throughout the messy operation.

"Just suck it up, you big baby," he told Beebe, who was finally coming to in the waiting room.

The door flew open and a white alien in a Vault suit came in.

"You came in here on your own power, so you must not be busted up too bad," he observed over his microscope spectacles.

"No Doc, I don't need help—I offer it. In exchange for whatever serves as currency here." She saw a bottle labeled 'laudanum' and grabbed it, sampling the concentration with a pinky finger. It was weak—probably only five percent morphine. "I can whip you up a high grade powder," she offered. "I'm trained in…"

"Great," he interrupted, standing and snatching the bottle away from her, "another junkie. In case you haven't noticed, this is a clinic, not a candy store. And I've got work to do."

"I'm not a junkie! I'm trying to tell you—I'm a physician and a chemist. I'm here to assist you and contribute to the good health and wellbeing of the people here with my medical expertise. And then get paid."

"It might go better for you if you wash the smell of liquor off before askin' for a job. I'm Doc Church and I run this clinic. Now before you go botherin' me, you should know the rules. Rule number one: Don't bother me. You follow that rule and we'll get along just fine."

"Sorry, Doc. I've had a helluva day. The liquor was a necessary evil. I can see you're short-staffed so..."

"Are your eardrums ruptured? Cause it looks to me like you're breakin' rule number one right now," he warned.

"Let me take your worst cases," she persisted. "Come on, there's gotta be someone other than me you never want to see again. One patient? I swear you won't regret it."

He relented. "A doctor doesn't talk about his patients. At least not to strangers, he doesn't," he said, looking sideways at the two battered and moaning patients.

"I'm Helena Cadeuseus. You can't deny the acquaintance now," she told him.

"All right," he sighed and beckoned her to follow him into his office. There he confided in muffled tones, "I suppose someone with medical trainin' has to have at least a bit of compassion. And maybe you can talk some sense into the boy. Theo Stahl—that boy got hisself a problem with cocaine. I caught him in here two to three times trying to steal what I keep around for anesthesia. He works up in the water treatment plant. It's one of the places he goes to get high. I dunno—I can't reach him. Maybe you can."

"Wait, Theo?" she recognized the name and the face that went with it. "Yeah, I know who you mean—that guy has got deeper issues than crack addiction. But he's my patient," she said, assuming a professional demeanor, "I'll get him through this tragic ordeal if it kills him. Doctor Cadeuseus—addiction counselor on the case." She straightened her lapels and held out a handshake but turned it into an outstretched palm after seeing it disdained. "All I need's a syringe. Got one?"

"You don't need a syringe to talk to an addict," he replied testily. "And I ain't givin' you my instruments anyways."

"Forget it, I'll use Theo's. Never underestimate the power of the placebo, Doc," she said to appease his misgivings. "This won't take long."


	9. Chapter 9: Theo, Interrupted

**Chapter 9: Theo, Interrupted**

At the water treatment plant, Theo was nowhere in sight, so Helena tapped the shoulder of an old man in coveralls who was cleaning sludge from a fitting.

He jumped. "Holy hell! What in tarnation are you doing sneakin' up on people like that!" he yelled.

"I wasn't sneaking!" she yelled back. "You just couldn't hear me over that old worn-out rock crusher!"

"What do you want?" he yelled back with a sludge smudged hand to his ear.

She cupped her palms around her mouth, "Where's Theo?"

"Hell if I know," he yelled back, "boy never bothers to come in on market day!" He turned around and went back to his work, effectively ending the conversation.

She decided to ask around in the dispersing market crowd.

"Theo?" Billy Creel asked, helping a merchant set up camp. "What do you want with that asshole?"

"I've got his prescription from Doc Church," she said, waving the laudanum she'd nicked.

He looked at it dubiously, "Try the Brass Lantern. His wife Jenny works there. Tell her I'm still waiting for that 5.56 he owes me, but I'll take breakfast in bed."

She climbed the winding metal path to the Brass Lantern. It was a surprisingly cozy little dive with red paper lanterns hanging from the awnings.

"Hey, are you Jenny Stahl?" she asked a tired, defeated looking woman who was serving ramen to tipsy caravaners.

"What's it to you?" she asked surlily, stuffing a napkin with a rude drawing on it down her bra.

"I'm looking for Theo. Have you seen him?" Helena asked.

"Whadda you want with Theo?" she demanded impatiently.

"I've got a message for him. From Moriarty," lied Helena. "About the gig tonight?" she hazarded.

"If he ain't at Moriarty's, he's prob'ly smokin' weed with Mello or slummin' around Craterside," she said after glaring at Helena suspiciously. Then she transformed into a perky barmaid and brushed past Helena gushing, "Hey hot stuff, I got something extra special for you tonight!" She wasn't talking to Theo.

It was dusk by the time she found Mello's shack at the end of a cul-de-sac with a narrow balcony vantage of the crater. She thought she knew Theo much better.

A boy with dark red hair and blue-shaded sunglasses opened the graffiti covered door before she could knock. He held the door against his chest and examined her sideways.

"Are you Mello?" Helena asked him.

"Nope," he replied.

"Do you know Theo?"

"Yep."

"Do you know where Theo is?"

"Yep."

"Is he in there?"

"Yep."

"Can I see him?"

"Nope."

"Are you high?" she guessed.

"Nope," he lied.

"You know what this is?" She pulled out the laudanum and swirled it tantalizingly.

"Never seen it before," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"You want some?" she asked, dipping a finger in and tasting it. "Mmmm, delicious."

"Bitch," he said cracking a slight smile.

" _Doctor_ Bitch," she corrected.

"A doctor pusher?" he asked skeptically.

She chuckled, "Damn, you got me there. It's only a lure."

The sound of a bass guitar emanated from the back of the shack. The door swung fully open and a blond kid stepped out and pushed a .44 magnum Desert Eagle into Helena's face. Part of his face was burned and his eyes were full of implacable hatred, but he was strikingly beautiful.

"Let's get one thing straight," he said vehemently, his finger tight on the trigger, "nobody pushes me. Those who do end up dead. The second I see your eye move, your brain is paste on that wall. Here's what's gonna happen: You're gonna turn around right now and walk away from this town. The next time I see you, I will kill you. Consider that your final warning."

The bore was close to her face, and she knew she wasn't fast enough to dodge it before the hammer fell. "Okay," she said, lizard brain fully engaged. "Bye." She backed away until she bumped against the balcony railing, which she flipped over neatly and landed three stories below on a slanted roof. She rolled off the roof and landed another two stories down on her feet in brahmin shit.

"Asshole," she muttered, kicking her boots clean. She was surprised at how quick and easy the fall was—satchel and rifle considered. Theo and the other two guys were looking at her from their balcony and she flipped them off emphatically before setting off for the gate.

She walked along the outside of the Megaton wall wishing that someone would spontaneously offer her a fusion pulse charge that conveniently attached to Megaton's nuclear warhead. It was dark and she could hear animal noises in the wilderness around her. Hunger began to gnaw at her, so she took out a knife and stalked the noises of her dinner.

A pack of wild dogs was terrorizing a molerat family. The chaos created an opportunity for a quick snatch and grab ambush. She leapt into the fray slashing wildly at hides and throats. It wasn't elegant and she barely escaped without injury, but she'd managed to keep the dogs at bay and drag her kill back to her stashed belongings against the wall of Megaton.

She started butchering the molerat, swallowing bloody chunks of meat as she laid the carcass bare. It wasn't good, but she only wanted to stave off the hunger. She'd come to know the extremes of pain and hunger intimately, and she would do anything to avoid the experience again.

When she was full, she consulted her Pip-Boy to see if she could receive radio. The brilliant light of her holo-display made her aware that she had been working in near pitch darkness the entire time, yet she had seen everything clearly. "I _am_ a troglodyte," she laughed. "I am a radio wave receiving troglodyte," she amended as she tuned into Galaxy News Radio. "I want to set the world on fire, but… there's nothing left to burn."

"Sounds like lyrics," a voice in the night said.

She turned her Pip-Boy off and grabbed her knife, glaring into the darkness. The shape of a man materialized in her vision. It was Theo. The darkness gave her the advantage and she clutched her bladed wrist, springing her arm for a quick slash. She circled around him once. He had a revolver on his hip.

 _I could have helped you Theo, but your friends fucked it up for us. You're better off dead now._ _I'm going to_ try _to put this blade between your third and fourth cervical vertebrae, straight through your vagus nerve, your carotid artery, and out of your larynx. It'll be quick, painless, and quiet. Just don't move or you'll mess it up. This is my first time._

He looked straight at her. "Didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to know why you were looking for me."

"You can see in the dark too?" she asked.

"I can sense you. You can see in the dark?"

"Yeah, I'm a troglodyte. How can you sense me?"

He sighed. "I'm a Void. I sense all espers. Especially you. In fact, only you. You eclipse everyone."

"Are you high, Theo?"

"I'm always high, Helena. It's what Voids do—we're all psychic vampires and drug addicts. Are you high?"

"Of course not."

"You want to get high with me?"

"Can't you think of any more productive ways to spend your time and money? What you need is something that gives you lasting pleasure and builds self-confidence. Do you have any other interests?"

"Two things come to mind."

"What two things?"

"Sex and music."

"Music is good. Let's work with that. How does playing make you feel?"

"Like the god of fuck, like my dick is a giant spike I mainline my audience with."

"Maybe we should talk about what makes you feel like a void."

"Are you kidding? Fuck dep is what made me a Void. The Hunger ate my brain and sucked my soul into a black hole."

"O-kay. Well... believe it or not, I can relate to that. I've felt hunger that split my soul and flayed my mind. It made me… lose control. I've found it's best to distance yourself from the things that trigger such feelings."

"You wanna fuck?"

"Hell no! I hate sex."

"Ah, I see. You're just now awakening to your power and you're crawling in your skin. The curse is on you with a vengeance. You don't want to admit you're a cock junkie and you wanna be everyone's cum dumpster. You're scared once you get a dick in you, you won't wanna take it out. Don't try to fight the Hunger, girl, it'll only make it worse for us when you finally give in. Let me get you high. I wanna fuck the shit out of you."

"I think we should continue this conversation when you're sober."

"You don't want to see me sober."

"Actually I do. In fact, I've got a special course of treatment lined up for you. We can start it as soon as you're ready. I've been meaning to ask you: Do you have a syringe?"

"Never leave home without it."

"Excellent. I'm really positive about this big step towards recovery you've chosen to take, Theo. I'm sure the regimen I've planned will eliminate all your withdrawal symptoms. It will also take care of your cravings and keep you from relapsing."

"I don't want your fucking snake oil. I just want to party with you. Unless... you've got something good."

"I've got a fucking panacea. And it's not cheap. But don't worry about that. We'll continue our counseling sessions at a bargain rate, just to monitor your progress. All in all, I'm quite satisfied with our first meeting."

The dogs she had scared away earlier had honed in on the scent of the molerat carcass behind her. They were stealthily converging on them from all sides. It was time to get the fuck out, so she was trying to wrap this up quickly. A light suddenly shone in the distance behind Theo.

"Oh look, someone is coming."

A figure bearing a torch approached Helena and Theo from the direction of the gate. Theo turned to see who it was. He waved.

"It's Matt," Theo said. It was the red-haired guy she'd seen back at Mello's place.

Matt called, "Hey, we're set up. Are you okay? What's going on here? Oh shit! What the fuck is this?" he demanded from Helena.

Theo turned back to see what he meant. Helena's face, hands, and chest were smeared with blood and she was clutching a giant bloody bowie knife.

"We're having a confidential doctor to patient counseling session here. If you'd like, I can offer my services to you as well. And your friend—I can tip him off to some potent anger management strategies," she said, "if he promises not to shoot me."

"Are you fucking insane?" Matt accused.

"Why do you say that?" Helena asked.

"We're you trying to kill me in the dark?" Theo asked, drawing his revolver and backing away.

"What? No!" She lowered the blade and straightened from her crouched stance. "I mean, only if you tried anything," Helena replied. "You were the one who was talking crazy," she accused, pointing the blade at him. Theo didn't know what she was talking about.

Matt laughed, "You're not a pusher, are you? Colin's a fucking douche."

"I guess we got off on the wrong foot," Helena said. "I'm new to counseling and my approach needs some refining. What's Colin got to do with it?"

"I get that you're an idiot, but if you're not a pusher, what are you?"

"I told you: I'm a doctor," Helena replied. Her patience was thinning.

"What, you mean you're a healer?" asked Matt. "Or are we just going to go round and round all night with this shit. Look behind you."

Helena reluctantly looked behind her at the molerat mess she had made. A ghoulish dog was licking the rib cage and trying to drag the carcass away.

"Watch that dog," Matt commanded. "It's going to explode in three… two… one…" Splat. It exploded. A rain of blood and gore hit Helena.

"Holy shit! What was that!" she yelled.

"What was that?" Matt replied. "I just exploded that dog is what. You never heard of demolators?" He scoffed, "You don't know shit from shingles, do you? What the hell were you doing in that Vault? Playing VR games and swigging Nuka Cola?"

"Yeah, so? You got something against VR?" Helena said vehemently. "At least I wasn't going around exploding puppies!"

"Hey man, there ain't nothing wrong with VR. Chill, Matt. She's just a kid," Theo said.

"Shut up Theo, I'm talking to Doctor Bitch. What is your talent, Bitch? I showed you mine. Least you can do is show me yours," he addressed Helena.

She thought for a moment. "Give me your syringe," she told Theo, "and I'll show you."

"Fuck that," Theo replied. "You think I'm stupid? Use your own panacea before you mooch off me, greedy bitch."

Matt rolled his eyes. "What are you going to do with a syringe?"

"I'm going to inject my blood into Theo, that's all. It's a trick I learned from monte flashen comb."

Matt narrowed his eyes. "Who else have you seen since you came out of the Vault?" he asked.

Helena considered and replied, "I farther mount ego plexus fountain Legos. No, it shatter doubts eager shining wainscot furlongs. What the hell! I mean that I sunder flea a beggar froth and cuckoo set plethora the phantom sigil. This is impossible! I can't say himmel string guano," she cried in desperation.

"Must have been Ingolf," Matt told Theo.

"No doubt. Her dad wouldn't do this to her," Theo replied.

"You never know," Matt said, "They're all fucking wacked," referring to pushers.

"I followed Ingolf from the school. She was there for three days."

"Shit, I don't have time for this," Matt said. "Let's go."

"Wait!" Helena begged, grasping any opportunity to learn what the two boys knew about her dad. "Theo! I'll sleep with you. Whatever. Just let me come back with you."

Theo looked back with a shit-eating grin. "Red, please," he looked at Matt like a kid begging his mom to let him keep a stray dog he'd brought home. "Look at her, she's fucking harmless."

"Oh brother," Matt sighed with supreme self-restraint. "Well, come on then."


	10. Chapter 10: Lereloth and Azazel

**Chapter 10: Lereloth and Azazel**

Two tall, sinuous figures stealthily emerged from a dissipating shadowfield on an outcropping of rock near the jagged metal wall of Megaton. They moved with an elegance unfamiliar and sinister to all the earth's memories of creatures, living and long dead, that had randomly arisen from its body to walk upon its hoary lands or glide within its amniotic seas. Had one of these earthly children been there to greet the two lithe aliens, they would have fallen to their knees in propitiate adoration, such was their enchanting beauty and grace. Unfortunately, they had arrived in the Capitol Wasteland and could therefore expect no adulatory paeans. Mother Earth had abandoned this melanoma scarring her surface and had no desire to know what manner of creatures abode there now.

The aliens were bedecked in long purple robes interwoven with psychic runes and tall, red-plumed, wraithbone helmets with faceplates designed to disquiet and alarm. One of them wore a mantle trimmed about the collar with downy red feathers. They both had swords and shuriken pistols. Several mangy canines lay dead around them, psychically strangled by the two eldritch beings who had been eavesdropping on a farcical conversation between three indigent savages. Their mission was strictly reconnaissance. They had come to this bleak hell-hole to track Ingrid until he made contact with their target.

"Take them all?" Azazel suggested as the three humans retreated from them.

"No," Lereloth replied, tossing his mantle over a shoulder and placing his hand on his pistol. "Maintain stealth and observation. We have yet no target and recreational engagement is unwise if there are more demolators in the area." He knew that Azazel was eager to jump into any fray before anyone could spoil his exuberance by cautioning temperance. Leroloth assumed it was an expression of his Warp majicka. Jump in, jump out, and to the aether with anyone left to suffer the consequences. He'd grown weary of explaining this to his young protégé.

"You're no fun at all," Azazel declaimed.

"Take an aerial soul resonance image of the village," Lereloth replied. "It may prove useful to slaver parties in the future." He was unable to comprehend why an esper of demolator caliber would choose to live in this blighted land. Or how said esper _could_ live in this land amongst its wretchedly unlovely inhabitants.

"Haven't you got the Queen's crow eyes?" Azazel asked, belatedly realizing the pun. "As you wish, Sybarite," he amended, skillfully averting Lereloth's lethal shuriken burst. "But what about that Void? Surely he will negate my imagination. And if I get caught up there…" He disappeared before Lereloth cut him in half.

Lereloth hoped that Azazel would soon take his command. He had already mastered the sword, he was a prodigy jumper, quick-witted, equal to him in strategy, and his talents grew significantly each time they were tasked with a mission. But he worried that the young fifty-year-old would die of boredom before he impressed Prince Vaako. He suspected that Azazel's rise through the ranks had been stymied by the stigma of having the same talent as their Aspect god Nelos, even though it was a crucial tactical skill.

Since Nelos had died and the Phoenix Lord Avallac'h had disappeared, Kabal politics had become questionable, to say the least. The Council was immersed in a vicious game of sexual intrigue, assassination, and humiliation. Reports and sightings of demons were met with lackluster response or outright ignored. Religious fanatics in Europe had created armies of deformed Voids, vampires had enslaved entire populations in South America, and dragons were befriending human sorcerers in England. Hundreds of Elder had been abducted, cursed, and enslaved by them, but there was no retribution. Alluding to the growing, catastrophic problems in briefings brought icy stares and silence. Everyone was afraid.

Lereloth had no desire to fight for the new Archon, Prince Siberius Vaako, and for his mother, Queen Mab—who was rumored to have gone mad. Those rumors were substantiated by the orders he received. Such as this mission. Why was she obsessed with destroying one psycher when there were demons roaming the earth? He didn't care about his performance as Sybarite captain anymore. These stealth missions were not his forte. He preferred the thrill of open warfare and the pleasures of untrammeled combat. Now, he wanted nothing more than to resign or be fired, but it was more likely that the Queen would order his execution instead. So he took all the missions for the Wasteland that he could and had become the de facto expert on the area. He could leisurely drag his orders out without interference from officials who despised the ugly harshness of the wastes. This particular mission, however, was being closely watched by Mab herself through her ubiquitous crow familiars.

"There was something queer about that girl covered in blood," Azazel continued, as if he'd never left. "Did she look elven to you? In proportion and agility?"

"Perhaps. Your eyes are sharper than mine in this darkness," Lereloth replied, raising an arched brow. "Is _that_ why you wanted to engage? You don't mean to take a slave from amongst jabbering savages that bathe themselves in their dinner, do you?"

Azazel replied offended, "Of course not. I was only making an objective observation."

Lereloth let it go. "I take it there was no Void interference? What did you imagine in aerial?"

"Here, transferring now," Azazel said.

Lereloth sent a mental cue to his helmet and a shimmering runic map was projected into his eyes. He observed the data Azazel had acquired. "Apparently the Void I've sensed here before has been exiled or killed. That bespangled tosser was obviously not it. Eight confirmed espers, but no target." He was impressed by the number of espers in Megaton. A psychic community of that size could avoid privation and protect themselves from slaver raids. He wondered how they had congregated so quickly after the disappearance of the Void.

"Perhaps Ingrid betrayed us. Perhaps he has not yet made contact?" said Azazel, peering at the soul points on the map he had made of Megaton, not finding the target.

"He sent a signal. It spiked and faded out. Here." He pointed to an area southwest of Megaton. "Even if Ingrid was capable of betraying Mab, do you think he could manipulate Sage magic? His psychic talent is mediocre and he has no natural magic."

"We have two options before us then," Azazel said. "Search this village for an incredibly dangerous target that may or may not exist or find Ingrid and ask him what game he plays. Do _you_ trust him?"

"Trust Ingrid? I'd as soon trust C'tan. However, we cannot rule out the possibility that James can manipulate sage magic. We are two days behind him. Before we jump to any conclusions, let's put our noses to the ground, as the humans say, and backtrack a bit," advised the aloof Leroloth. "Springvale High School." He pointed to the map at the location the signal had been recorded and held out his arm for Azazel. "Jump."

"It's a desolate hovel," Azazel said, when they got there.

"Let's look inside," said Lereloth summoning a magefire wisp.

"Oh, this is quite macabre."

"You don't say. The scent blows me away."

"Let's explore," Azazel urged.

"After you, Doctor Livingston."

"Jawohl, mein Kapitan."

"Look here, lieutenant, and quit carrying on," Lereloth rebuked him, suppressing a smile and illuminating a room. It was a butcher shop. Benches were laden with limbs, entrails, and organs. Buckets of blood filled a corner of the room. An adolescent human corpse with a bludgeoned face sat cross-legged at a desk cradling a hairless head in its lap. 'Dieing is eezy as ABC' was written on the wall behind it, followed by a list execution methods, most of which had at least two checkmarks. 'Chop of hed' and 'birn' each had ten check marks. Only 'nukuler eksploshun' had been unchecked.

Azazel counted the checkmarks. "Asuryan's eyes! Eighty-two were slaughtered here if this list is correct. Within the last seventy two hours—judging by the stage of putrefaction."

Lereloth ignored Azazel's sacrilege and surveyed the room, his helmet recorded and identified substances and body parts as he looked at them. The scene struck him on a primal chord, even though he was accustomed to witnessing such carnage on the battlefield. It was rare to randomly encounter such a creative exhibition, obsessively designed by the mind of a truly depraved psychopath. This one was on a level with Gruemanuel. "Look on that shelf over there." His helmet identified the facial features of the heads and matched all of them to a single known entity.

"There are significantly more than ten heads up there. Wait. They're all the same." Azazel said with amusement. "Androids? DNA analysis says... human. Wait... Elder? No, my sensors are bugging out. Could this be Michaelis's sorcery? We should call for a forensics team."

"That is not our directive. Concentrate on the mission at hand. We are merely gathering data for our objective. This doesn't fit James's modus operandi. If I were to guess, I'd say this is an Immortal," Lereloth said with the air of an instructor. "It's identical to a female tracked three days ago from the mountain by Mab's familiars. A Miss Burns, if we are to accept such intelligence. Take a head from the shelf for analysis." He didn't want to disturb the evidence of the macabre display at the desk. Just in case.

Azazel used a telekinesis spell to pull one of the heads off the shelf into his hand. "Target acquired," he said and held it out to Lereloth. "Do you recognize it? Is it one of the four?"

"I have never seen this one before. It is new," Lereloth replied with scholarly interest.

"So, you're going with Immortal. I didn't think Immortals could reproduce," Azazel replied wryly.

"Indeed. We need more information. According to the crows, it is still here." He cast a soul search spell with no results and tisked ruefully, "Probably dead. Let's sweep the area."

When their sweep took them to the basement they were forced to levitate to avoid soiling their robes. It was a study in scarlet. The entire level was flooded with blood. Eight human bodies were submerged there. Cause of death unknown, said his helmet. To think that all this blood came from one Immortal. No doubt the child was dead. What a waste.

When the Storm had consumed the portals, everyone in the webways had either been lost or came out transformed. They had each attained lengthened life-spans, specific psychic abilities, and the curse of the Hunger. Except for the twenty-four children who had all returned safely. They were cursed with something indirectly far more calamitous—immortality. In the origin of espers, nothing had been certain; but, through experimentation and accident, they had learned that Immortals were not truly immortal. If one worked fast enough, it was possible to reduce them to so many bits. Then their souls were then released from their fleshly prisons and did not return. It was as if the Storm had sent them a perverted message written on the bodies of their beloved children. To read that message, one had only to look at what had been done to the Immortals. It was deeply disturbing because they themselves had been the arbiters of those depravities, compelled by the curse of the Storm. Only eight Immortals of the original twenty-four ostensibly remained, four of them at large (likely dead), three of them cognizant and in Avalon. This one could not have survived the mutilation evidenced in the grisly scene surrounding them.

"It was definitely female," Azazel observed, levitating a lower torso from the blood puddle. It had no hair. "Looks elven to me. Are you sure it was human?"

"I feel like a brazen idiot for not expecting this from the start," Lereloth said with self-abasing disgust, lifting a demon's claw from the soup. "This was not an Immortal. It looks like… an imp?" His helmet did not object to his conjecture. Inconclusive. "Explains the contradictory analyses."

Azazel looked at the white hand with morbid fascination. Its long fingers tapered seamlessly into sharp, black talons, at least 15 centimeters long. Whatever demon it was, it spooked him to think that it may yet be alive, lurking in this dank, hellish pit. Watching them. Just then, a horned figure emerged from the wall next to him and he autonomically yelped and teleported across the room, upsetting a baby carriage standing in the murk. "Khaine's bloody cod! That startled the piss out of me," he laughed nervously, clutching his chest. The figure turned out to be a bisection of the imp. Dead.

A mechanical recording of an infant's cry clicked on. "Look what you've done, foolish elf!" Lereloth yelled, watching a motion sensing mini nuke apparatus in the carriage activate as he lunged for Azazel. "JUMP!"

Springvale High School was a hemisphere of light. The two elves braced themselves against the shock wave and watched the mushroom cloud boil into the night sky from the safety of the mountain. "You dropped the head, didn't you?" Lereloth asked resignedly, knowing the answer.

"Regrettably, yes. I abandoned my composure when that imp half came off the wall," Azazel replied sheepishly.

The older elf turned his gaze upon him with a trenchant deadpan stare. "Surely Prince Vaako will understand, when you explain it to him," he said with melodious sarcasm.

"One can only hope the virtual evidence will satisfy him, should he ask, Lord Sybarite. We _do_ have a superseding directive. Shall we proceed with our search for Ingrid?" Azazel asked, placing his arm in Lereloth's to avoid further discussion.

"I shall report it as deceased," Loreloth said, watching the plumes of nuclear fire. He checked his outdated map and found Ingrid's location."Ingrid is 96.4 kilometers southeast." The landscape of the DC ruins was in a state of constant flux due to the never ending battles between mutants, humans, rogue robots, and now demons. Lereloth chose a point he knew to be free of debris but that was close to Ingrid. He pointed it out to Azazel. "Jump," he ordered.

They had entered a war zone. Deafening booms and shots rang all around them. They danced over a fusillade of projectiles riddling the ground around them with holes.

"So which one is he?" Azazel yelled over the din, firing his weapon at an armored human who was hosing down the battlefield with 5mm rounds from a minigun. The man's face turned into a red mist and he dropped. He narrowly side-stepped a screaming missile and teleported behind the carcass of a double decker bus to avoid the detonation blast, grasping Lereloth's arm.

Lereloth leaned out and shot another RPG that had been launched straight at them, causing it to explode in mid air. He chuckled at the resulting bellowing of the knob caught by the shrapnel from the impact then consulted his map and said, "One point twelve kilometers west southwest. Jump!"

They'd arrived safely on the steps of a huge marble building. It wasn't long before they heard the ponderous movements and tracheal rumbling of a beast nearby.

They turned to face a four-meter balrog swiftly closing on them. Its eyes glowed with implacable hatred and the lethal intent of its powerful muscles was magnificent to behold as it came crashing toward them in a fury of bloodlust.

"Is all the wasteland like this?" Azazal asked incredulously, drawing his sword.

Lereloth drew his sword and started charging a stun spell. Shuriken weapons were not effective against the thick hides of balrogs. "Well, yes." He dodged the balrog's forty centimeter claws with a roll and spun to slash its hind leg, only lightly hamstringing it. "It's particularly thick in the ruins though." The balrog screamed with a shocking roar and swiped its other claw at Lereloth, who agilely jumped away from the arc of whizzing death. "I'll stun it and keep it occupied," he called to his subordinate, ducking backwards under a deadly tail swipe. "You teleport it over Ambrym."

Azazal nodded with newfound respect for the courage of his captain and sheathed his sword. Ambrym was his usual dumping ground for opponents that wouldn't go down easily. Lereloth knocked the balrog off balance with his most powerful stun spell and Azazal leapt agilely onto the demon's head, seizing its horns and instantly teleporting it above a volcano in Vanuatu. He pushed himself away and they fell towards a lake of fire and molten rock. The balrog twisted in the air, screaming with fury at its impending doom and flinging a final clawed swipe at him, but Azazel was gone before it could connect.

He had teleported back to Lereloth, hitting the pavement with a practiced roll. Straightening his helmet and brushing his robes, he said nonchalantly, "Well, that was an unexpected encounter. How does a balrog get into the ruins of DC? Why would it come here, of all places?" he asked, perplexed. They could still hear the booms and reports of the battle continuing only a kilometer away.

Lereloth sighed, "No one reads my reports, do they?" He checked his map again to pinpoint Ingrid's location. It placed him inside the marble building. "Gird your loins. Ingrid is in here. And who knows what else." He gestured toward the heavy oaken doors of the columned building.

Azazel opened the doors and they stepped into a smoky den lit by plasma lights and neon. Faded pornographic images and crude maps plastered the walls. They surveyed the interior with sardonic amusement. A large neon sculpture graphically depicting sexual congress was suspended from the ceiling. Four giggling naked women were clustered around a billiard table, oblivious to the elves. Empty liquor bottles littered the room. Farther in, Ingrid was sitting with a balding man dressed only in a leopard print g-string at an acrylic table strewn with paraphernalia.

"Hey, hey!" called the ridiculous man to the elves, peeling his cheeks off his plastic pedestal. "Come in, come in and have a drink! To what do I owe the pleasure of your fine company?"

The women turned around and, seeing the Elder, ran squeaking up a grand marble staircase. The elves were not accustomed to being greeted by humans in such state, but there was no cause to bully the gregarious man, who spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. They concluded that he must have sailed to this place and been stranded by shipwreck. Unless he was teleported here. By whom? they wondered and removed their helmets.

"Who are you?" asked Lereloth, tucking his helmet under his arm.

"I am Dukov and this is my pad," the man replied. "Who the fuck are you? Nevermind. You need a drink. Cherry! Need some fucking booze over here!" he called to one of the women huddling on the second floor landing.

"How did you come to this place, Dukov? You are Russian, are you not? The oceans are incredibly dangerous these days." Lereloth said.

Dukov understood his meaning and shrugged dramatically, saying, "I know. I know. But he gave me no choice. He said he would cut me in half if I didn't come. Just because he could, and because he fancied it, and because nothing in the world would prevent him from killing whomever he damn well pleased. And he was right! So I came to this stinking gulag with nothing but my party girls and my fucking booze to account for."

Lereloth asked, bemused, "Of whom do you speak, wretch?"

"Nelos, of course. Do I look like a fucking sailor to you, clown shoes?" Dukov replied obnoxiously.

Lereloth was so surprised to hear Nelos's name that he ignored Dukov's insult. _Nelos?_ "When did you see Nelos? Why did Nelos ask you to come here?"

"In Russia, you do not question Nelos, Nelos questions you. Hah ha. I've been here eating, drinking, farting and fucking for eighteen years, waiting for him to take me back to motherland. But still he has not come."

Lereloth replied dolefully, "And he shan't. Nelos is dead."

Dukov exclaimed, "Like hell you say! Nothing can kill that crazy bastard. I won't believe it until I see his dead body, and not even then!" His booming laughter echoed off the marble walls.

Azazel stepped forward and astutely asked, "What did you do in Russia? Are you an esper?"

Dukov narrowed his eyes at him and replied, "I was head of intelligence agency before apocalypse. After, I brew vodka and run mafia." He regarded the elves suspiciously, "You ask too many questions. I do not know you, and I do not trust anyone who does not have drink in their hand. Cherry!"

Lereloth decided to humor Dukov out of respect for his dealings with Nelos. He thought it likely that he would get a better description of Nelos's last days if he befriended the jocose man. If what he said was true, then Dukov was a first generation esper, but they had yet to discover his talent. He didn't want to resort to using Ingrid. Compelled information was always terse and lacked flavor. He addressed Dukov courteously, "I am Lereloth Vulkeirth, Sybarite captain, and this is Azazel Romlin, my first lieutenant. We came here to speak to Ingrid Burke. But we accept your invitation to carouse, for the sake of amity."

Cherry, a pretty adolescent girl with cropped auburn hair, had donned a diaphanous robe and descended the stairs with a tray of vodka and glass cups. She took it to the table where Ingrid sat and unloaded it there, clearing it of debris. Ingrid thanked her politely, and she took her tray aside, leaning against a pillar and watching the Elder apprehensively.

As the elves approached, Ingrid stood and bowed to them ceremoniously, removing his fedora. "My liege," he intoned sonorously, waiting for Lereloth to speak.

"At ease, Ingrid," Lereloth replied, sitting at the table. "Report. Where is your progress in tracking the target?"

"I have made contact, but I did not mark him." He looked into Lereloth's eyes with profound regret and said, "I must apologize, my liege, but after I saw him eaten alive by a demon, I fled into this dubious sanctuary. I am surprised that you did not encounter the demon. It has been pacing the street outside for the last hour."

Azazel threw himself into an acrylic chair and smirked boastfully, "You speak of that balrog? Don't surprise yourself; we encountered it as soon as we arrived. And it encountered a volcanic pit of molten fuck-you-up-the-ass forthwith. Mission complete." He dusted his hands and winked at Cherry.

Dukov laughed boisterously and clapped him on the shoulder, pouring him a drink. "You must be teleporter, yes?" he guessed.

Lereloth gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, but before he could censure Azazel, Ingrid spoke, "Well then, all evidence of James's body is burning in the pit of a volcano. I feel as if I am there with him already, sinking beneath the molten, how did you so eloquently phrase it? Fuck you up the ass?" he said dolorously. He rose a cup, not caring what was in it, and declared, "This is our last day on Earth, my eldritch friends, let's get pissed."

Dukov, Lereloth, and Ingrid all toasted and tossed the contents of their cups back. Azazel exclaimed in his defense, "What, we were supposed to bring his body back? Mab's a genius psycher. Can't she read Ingrid's memories to learn the truth?" But a thought had already dawned upon him and he looked crestfallen, "I see. There's no telling if Ingrid's memories are true since Michaelis is involved." He picked up his own glass and downed its contents. "Nelos's nuts," he cursed, cringing at the taste of the liquid he'd imbibed.

Lereloth replied stiffly, "We weren't supposed to engage him at all. Only open a portal for Mab once we made contact."

Neither Azazel nor Lereloth held any esteem in the eyes of the Queen, though they were consistently competent, excluding this particular mission. When James had suddenly appeared out of nowhere after eighteen years of silence, the Queen herself had planned this mission, specifically commandeering Lereloth and Azazel. Their failure to successfully complete it was a death sentence. It could all be blamed on Ingrid, being on point, but he was the Queen's favorite pet, and it was unlikely that she would kill him without sending him off with a grand spiritual entourage of Elder souls. Who better to escort him into the depths of Hell than the two least popular Elder in all the Kabal? Azazel knew Ingrid was accustomed to the Queen's sadistic foibles, but he thought it uncivil that Aspect Warriors should suffer them too. He had long suspected something like this would be his doom.

Lereloth spoke again. "Ingrid, what target did you mark outside of Megaton in that old school?"

"Ah yes. That was James's daughter—an Immortal, if you believe it," he said reviving himself from his stoic funk. "Mab will be ecstatic. Did you find her well? I left her under the care of some especially savage natives. I didn't have time to subdue her, so I marked her for you."

"That was an Immortal? It looked more like an imp. Why didn't you eliminate the natives and compel her to wait for us?" Lereloth asked, suspicious of Ingrid's motives.

"If I should die out here after compelling her, she would be free to escape. Besides, she insulted my honor and provoked my Hunger. She's a dead ringer for James." He sighed bitterly, "My inclination was Mab's appeasement. Why do you speak of her in the past tense? And what made you think she was an imp?" he asked, looking at Lereloth speculatively.

"Never mind," Lereloth said, "she is dead."

"Shame," Ingrid said, pouring himself another glass. "But if that is so, why should we go back?"

"What do you mean?" Lereloth asked, eyeing Ingrid skeptically.

"Why would we go back to certain torture and death," Ingrid stated flatly, challenging Lereloth. "Kill me now because I have no intention to return to that evil bitch. You can't force me to. You have no reason to, since your head is on the block too."

"Ingrid, you're drunk! I've never seen you so passionate!" applauded Azazel, laughing.

Lereloth was astounded. Ingrid had broken through Mab's compulsion. _She is not almighty_. He emptied another glass and launched into a treasonous tirade. "It's the Hunger that binds my loyalty, but I've thought about it many times—casting off the new rule and absconding on my own to roam the solar system as an outlaw. What would they do if I left? They sure as hell couldn't track me down. This whole system is heading for collapse with the infighting amongst Mab and her illusionary enemies. She's destroying the Council with paranoia. Meanwhile, demons are popping up everywhere. Void armies are blocking rehabilitation of the rich lands. And the goddamned wizards have taken control of all magic in England. There're zombies running amok across Europe, and all the vampires have retired to Pangea to build their own empire. Who could have conceived that the cradle of civilization would be the coffin of it as well? Hell, at least the Wasteland is contained by its own fallout! It's a fucking mess and I'm sick of it. It gets worse every time I go out on some harebrained mission from her Highness to fetch some fifth gen seer or catatonic Immortal or maybe some locator that's been eaten up or joined the wizards or tries to kill themselves when they see me. There's no reason for this kind of brutal stupidity! We're in the clutches of Warp insanity and we have to fight against it unitedly if we want to save anything. Nelos would never have died if we had only stood with him!

Everyone stared at him in shock.

"I applaud you for speaking so freely against your Queen," Ingrid said, looking like he would vomit.

"You are a true comrade now. I understand the despair in your heart," said Dukov, refilling his glass.

"Lereloth, I'm surprised at your courage again," said Azazel tossing back a shot and cringing. "I'll try to forget I heard it."

"What if I told you that Nelos was not dead, but is alive and waiting for his moment to strike against Mab?" a silvery voice behind him asked.

Lereloth turned and saw James. He rose from his seat and glowered at his target. "James," he said, composing himself again. "Well, all is not yet lost." He tried to stun him, but his spell blasted through thin air.

"All is lost if you take me to Mab," James said, disappearing. "I can show you a better way."

"James Michaelis, why does the Queen thirst for your blood so?" Lereloth asked, looking about the building for James, knowing he had fallen into a trap he couldn't escape from. He had heard about this, the walls would become ceilings, would become floors that were doors…

A disembodied voice sounded in everyone's heads, "It's because I killed Astarith. Mab is possessed by a demon named Mammon, just as her twin, Astarith, was possessed by Asmodeus. I destroyed Asmodeus, killing Astarith and triggering her blood bond to Mab that forces her avenge her sister. Possession can not conquer that bond. It was a lure and a subterfuge. Because of this Mammon has not sucked this planet dry of souls. She is compelled to see my face before she kills me. But she does not know me like Mab did, and she will never see my face before she dies. Because Nelos _is_ alive. My daughter and I will stand with him against the encroaching Warp Storm."

Lereloth looked suspiciously at Dukov who said, "Hey, it ain't me! I'm merely illusionist." He flipped a card in his hand making it turn into a dollar bill, then a whiskey flask, then a tobacco pipe and back into a card.

Lereloth replied to the voice, "Your daughter is dead, James. We found her outside Megaton. She was nothing but gore and demon parts."

James appeared before him with a baleful expression. "My daughter lives and she is far more powerful than the Ancient demons. You saw her yourself outside the wall of Megaton tonight. Yet you didn't recognize her in the school? Lereloth, you were always a voice of reason amongst your people. You've said you would stand with Nelos. Won't you take your stand now?"

Azazel remembered and he gasped. _The_ _bald elvish girl in the blue suit, just like Michaelis's suit. Her head, her body, they were the same as those pieces we saw in the school. And she was perfectly healthy. How does he know we saw her?_

Lereloth grasped James's arm, which was apparently real this time, though he didn't know for certain. Readying the portal spell, he looked down into James's eyes to say goodbye. And he was devastated by their luminous beauty. It is a particular defect amongst the Elder that they cannot resist beauty. They are pilgrims of the aesthetic path and had long assumed that any other intelligent species could only feel the same way. Yet many did not and that only served to increase their sense of superiority and take even greater pleasure in the admiration of grandiose landscapes, multicolored galactic displays, and the depths of beautiful eyes. Leroloth knew it was his innate failing that made him pause and not look away. He desperately wanted to kiss James, but instead he laughed impotently, not trusting his eyes. "James," he said tenderly, giving in to his heart, "take me to Nelos, and I will lay my sword at his feet."

James replied, "I have compelled Nelos to remain in hiding until the time comes for him to vanquish Mammon. She will be utterly unprepared and defenseless against him when he strikes. He will take back Avalon in a single day. Until then, no one can know where he is."

"You dare claim to have compelled Nelos?" Lereloth accused dourly, tightening his grip on James's arm and feeling cheated of an epic opportunity. "And you offer nothing to support your words? Nelos's spirit tree has blackened and withered. What further proof could one need to know that he is dead?"

"He gave his consent to compel him," James replied evenly, unzipping a pocket on his Vault suit. He pulled from it an object wrapped in aluminum foil. As he unwrapped layer after layer, light sprang forth, blinding the intrepid audience. A brilliant star bleached the building with effulgent white light before James carefully wrapped it back in the foil to protect everyone's eyes. "This is Nelos's soul stone. Do you think that it is dead? Or that it is an illusion?" James asked.

The simultaneously easiest and hardest thing a psycher can do is to persuade someone. This is why James had never compelled anyone idealistically. When people do not own their beliefs it is just as well that they believe in nothing at all. It is far more empowering to guide others with logic, politeness, and demonstration, and so he had tried to develop those mundane talents instead. He had always felt that compulsion was ultimately worthless in the lasting scheme of things.

While everyone blinked and waited for their eyes to readjust to the darkness of the room, he told them, "You have a choice: Believe that Nelos is alive and await his resurrection with hope in a future that he protects, or believe that I am lying, that I am using you to sabotage the Kabal for my own nefarious purposes, and that we are all doomed, even if I allowed you to sacrifice me. Why do you think Mab has never compelled your loyalty? It is because I have foreseen this day, and I have seen to it that she trusts in your mindless devotion. I have also foreseen the choice you will make because you are not mindless. I would not have revealed myself otherwise."

When they could see, they all gazed at him thoughtfully. Even the girls huddling on the second floor balcony felt as if they were witness to something that they'd never forget. They'd stepped forward, drawn by the light, and gazed down at him with unexpected adulation. He had been there the entire evening and they each thought they knew him intimately. But he somehow knew these elegant aliens even better, and he wasn't intimidated by them. Far from it. He could command them if he wished. Like Mister Dukov and Mister Burke, they were all subject to his will, yet he'd treated none of them that way. He became an angel of light to them.

"You are tricky bastard," Dukov laughed, handing him a glass of vodka. "You remind me of Nelos. Ha ha."

Azazel clamped his gaping mouth shut and swallowed. "I'm in! This will be like another War in Heaven," he said fervently.

"All these years, this was your game," Ingrid said, eyeing him shrewdly with a wicked grin. "You're a seer!"

For the first time in the history of the universe, an Elder bent his knee willingly to a human. "Tell me what I can do for Nelos, James," Lereloth asked reverently


	11. Chapter 11: Mab

**Chapter 11: Mab**

Lereloth and Azazel watched in shock as Ingrid was ripped limb from limb by a mutant behemoth that had crashed through the wall of stone and wreckage opposing the left lane of the derelict motorway. Mab was emerging from the portal between them, so they had been kneeling, but they couldn't resist watching the scene unplaying before their eyes. Wisps of magefire revealed James's fleeing figure. He ran into a passage in the opposite embankment while the behemoth gnawed on Ingrid's disembodied thigh.

Witnessing the carnage, Mab shrieked, "What is this? You dare take my beloved pet from me?" Ingrid's soul blitzed from his corpse away from her to the north. Her eyes blazed with crazed demonic fervor and her hair hissed venomously at the mindless mutant before her. Mutants were resistant to most psychic forces, so she was forced to strike out offensively with a precision lightning bolt to its brain pan through the eye sockets. It fell to the ground with a sizzling, earth quaking thud. She opened her mouth in a scream that was felt most painfully in the ninth level of Hell, but was barely a whisper here in this land fetid with repulsive unnatural life. "Put him back together," she commanded her adjutants unreasonably and gave chase to the elusive psycher in the tunnel.

The two elves assembled Ingrid as best they could and his corpse was looking pretty damn fine by the time she returned, teeth grinding and eyes flashing, from the smoking inferno whither James had fled. She stared at it for a while, thinking. It was obvious to the two Sybarites that the Queen was unsuccessful in catching her quarry. Azazel gripped Lereloth's shoulder, expecting to have to transport them from the effects of her fury at a second's notice.

Instead she narrowed her beautiful green eyes and asked in a voice contorted with pain, "How does he elude me, Lereloth? I have been searching for him for seventeen years and, at last, he shows himself to me. Only to disappear into the labyrinthine bowels of this sarcoma on the planet. I couldn't break through the teeming masses of mutants in that tunnel, so how does he?"

Lereloth stood and removed his helmet. Keeping his gaze directed at the pavement, he replied, "If I may speak freely, my Queen, this human is beneath your notice. He is but a gnat in the gale of your great power. There are more deleterious agents that threaten your…"

"I know your opinion, Lereloth," she rebuked him scathingly. "I'm asking for your mental acuity in solving a riddle." She approached him sinuously, snakes writhing innocuously behind her and touched a finger to his lips. "I've never asked you for anything else, have I?"

"Never, my Queen," Lereloth replied, terrified at the prospect.

"Well then, answer me this, Wasteland Guru: How does a psycher navigate the wastes without a friend to defend himself. How does he disappear from Sight and Sound for eighteen years? How does he so wickedly anticipate my moves and sacrifice his own friends time and time again? Why is Ingrid's body lying here instead of James's? I begin to doubt who… Who is this man?" She asked vehemently, clutching her breasts as if she was aroused by the idea of anyone eluding her.

"That is no mystery, my Queen. He is a renegade psycher, with a simple, if treasonous, agenda. Everyone who knows him knows his schemes are infantile and preposterous: He thinks to usurp you. But to consider him a serious threat is to ascribe to him powers that he does not possess. Examining his motives and methods is counterproductive. It has always been so with James. He is a nuisance, but he is not worth the effort…"

"Lereloth," she said, kissing his lips and drawing his downcast eyes to her face, "I ask you a riddle and you prevaricate with excuses for my foe. What shall I do with you?" She slid her hand around his neck, down his chest, around his groin, and between his thighs. "Shall I put your soul into that patchwork ragdoll and show you a cosmic joke?" she nodded her head towards Ingrid's body. Crocodile tears pooled and slipped from her languid eyes. "Do you still pine for the Cosmic Serpent? Tell me, to what extent is it reasonable for one to pursue revenge?"

Lereloth was entranced. Mab was exquisitely beautiful—even amongst Elder. She was a gorgon; every male who looked upon her turned to stone. Coral colored snakes in her hair accented her large emerald eyes, her cheek bones were like blades and her mouth an inviting, honeyed cleft. Gazing at her lush lips, Lereloth leaned inward and answered breathlessly, "Only to the brink past which one loses what gives life meaning and joy, my Queen."

"And when one has been robbed of the capacity for joy?" she asked, stroking him. "And that which gives life meaning becomes vengeance? Should I cradle this Villefort to my breast like a prized pet and coddle him for the sake of the purpose he's given me? I have been cursed, Lereloth. Vengeance is a terrible bent that can only be satisfied by sacrificing everything that remains. And yet I have no choice. I must make him suffer as she suffered, no matter the cost—pain is the texture of my joy." She clenched him roughly and chuckled sadistically as his eyes widened in agony. "Imbalance is the essence of evil, Sybarite. It is also the catalyst of creation. Who are you to say that vengeance for its own sake does not sanctify our existence?"

He dared not cry out. There was no doubt in his mind—she was imbalanced. _What has been done to you to make you this way?_ he wondered, vowing in his heart to avenge her. She kissed him lustily before she released his gonads and pushed him away, looking at Ingrid's corpse. "Where did his soul spirit off to so skittishly?" she asked in frustration. Azazel had returned to kneeling obsequiously. Mab walked over to her gaishan's body and examined him, touching his face and his chest until she was satisfied that he was lost. She kissed him and rose again, opening another portal. "Bury him and return to Avalon," she commanded the two Sybarites. "We have much to discuss, Lereloth. James cannot evade Enthir's sounding as long as his feet touch earth." She stepped through the portal and it closed.

Lereloth groaned and bent over. He gradually remembered everything as the pain receded. He was still stone. "She is gone," he informed James and Dukov, who had been disguised as two wrecked motorcycles. "You'd better levitate from here to someplace high off the ground—such as the tower where we hid Ingrid."

James pushed himself up on his rusty kickstand and rolled over to the elf, holding out a handlebar. "Beep, beep," he said.

Lereloth cocked an eyebrow and touched James's handlebar. "This goes beyond illusion, Dukov. I've never heard of this talent."

"Hah ha!" Dukov laughed, rising from the pavement. "And I have never heard of motorcycle picking itself up with its dick!" He clapped the motorcycle on its worn seat and turned it back into James, who was grinning. Then he stepped over and turned Ingrid's corpse back into a feral ghoul.

Azazel rolled on the pavement wracked by hysterical laughter, "She ki… kissed… ah… ghoul… hah ha. Oh, Cegorach consume me!"

Lereloth eyed him disdainfully and told Dukov, "You'd better change it back into Ingrid until we inter it." He scanned the night sky and the surrounding pockmarked buildings with their gaping black windows. "She may yet be watching us." He looked intently at the Russian and said, "This talent of yours, it's incredible. To change the composition of matter? Does it have lasting effects?"

Dukov turned the ghoul back into Ingrid. "It lasts several days at most, but this clown is the only one I have ever seen move as inanimate object," he replied, gesturing to James.

"Motorcycles are not inanimate," James argued. "But you have a point. If I was a teapot, I'd have used my spout. Viktor, turn us into crows. It's time we flew this coop. I have a date with Destiny."

"Ah, you favor Destiny, eh?" the Russian said. "Very well, I have Hunger for Cherry on top." He laughed and they bid the Elder farewell and flapped away.

Azazel wiped the tears from his eyes and hoisted Ingrid's body. He held his hand out to Lereloth and said, "Let's bury this meat and get back to Avalon. I'd like to bury my own meat in a certain Sahmwain."

Lereloth scowled contemptuously. "These humans have too great an influence on you, Lieutenant. Let us go then," he said, donning his helmet. "I have my own intercourse to conduct with the Devil herself."

Avalon was located inside a bubble of Webway space, between the Aether and realspace. So when they had buried Ingrid's fake body, the two elves teleported to the nearest Webway portal, which was inside a dilapidated supermall called Paradise Falls. The Cosmic Serpent, Nelos, had been the only one capable of teleporting directly into Avalon. With mixed feelings, they stepped from the Wasteland, through the oily skin of the portal where they were briefly spaghettified, and into the beautiful landscape of Avalon, where they immediately forgot everything that they had planned with James.


End file.
